


What We Feel In Our Hearts

by Lupin111



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (TV 1980), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, The Buried Giant - Kazuo Ishiguro
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, post-arthurian England
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:20:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 66,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupin111/pseuds/Lupin111
Summary: This is a Pride and Prejudice fic, transposed to the incredible, amazing world of Kazuo Ishiguro's 'The Buried Giant'. The characters are all P&P, and the plot is a mix of both, but the primary and predominate setting is that of 'The Buried Giant'.Elizabeth Bennet, living in a Brittonic village in post-Arthurian England knows that there is something in the world just beyond her reach, hidden in the mists of her memories. When Saxon warrior Fitzwilliam Darcy saves her sister, they begin an unwilling journey together full of mystery, danger, and love.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley, Lydia Bennet/George Wickham
Comments: 204
Kudos: 132





	1. Prologue

Elizabeth sat on the hilltop, and drew her shawl closer to her. Miles of desolate land lay before her. No villages, no farms, no cultivation. Forbidden by decree for anyone to venture beyond.

Still.

Something out there tugged at her inexplicably, deep inside. Elizabeth felt that she had been there, somehow. The Visions, as she had named it, though it was nothing more than fragments from an oft repeated dreamed. Crystal clear water, gurgling past a river bank. A bouquet of purple flowers glistening in the sun. Laughter – not her own, but deep and beautiful.

Elizabeth drew her shawl even closer, as she felt the icy fog come down on her, almost as punishment for her dreams. How could she explain it? She had never shared any of this, even with her beloved sister Jane.

The fog was never there in the Visions, even though that was impossible. The fog was _everywhere._ They had been born into it, and it would be there long after they had died, just like the ogres. The ogres hid in the fog, but Elizabeth had never really been afraid of them. For one, you could hear ogres before they appeared before you. And with the life they led, there were bigger things to worry about; a decent harvest, a glimmer of sunshine to help the crops grow, the endless need for firewood given the perennial lack of sun.

Besides, ogres didn’t bother you unless you went looking for trouble, and Elizabeth was always careful. She bit her lower lip unconsciously. She _did_ try to be careful, that was true. But Elizabeth also felt somehow _protected_ , another impossibility without explanation. With her right hand, she reached into her pocket and gripped the little piece of metal. Even though she knew herself to be alone, Elizabeth still looked around furtively before she took the small metal token out of her pocket – another secret she kept from Jane. It was old, older than her, perhaps older than the whole village. Small, engraved letters from a language unknown. A family crest so small that Elizabeth could barely make out the details. But instinctively, she knew that this token held some power. She knew that it protected her…she had seen it in a Vision. It was gleaming silver then, in the palm of her hand. There was a voice, and again laughter, except this time it was hers. Sun rays were dancing off the metal. The mere thought of the Vision made her feel warmer.

Elizabeth kissed it, and carefully placed it back in her pocket.

Where had it come from? Why was she so comforted by it?

Elizabeth sighed, and laid down on the earth, not caring if her coat would get dirt on it. Questions, questions, questions, with no answers. And how could there be answers, when no one remembered anything, ever? People knew each others names, to be sure, they knew which house they lived in, and what clothes to wear. But everything was so fuzzy.

A few days ago, Elizabeth had remembered the incident about Charlotte’s little cousin John. John was maybe 6 or 7 years old. He was known to get into trouble, and for always doing things he wasn’t supposed. Well, a few days ago – Elizabeth had already forgotten how many days ago it was – Charlotte had told her that John was missing, and she was afraid that he had been taken away by an ogre. Soon, most of the village was looking for John. Then, a fight had broken up between Mr. Hunt and the old widow Jones about firewood. Suddenly, everyone was talking about firewood and intervening in the fight. Elizabeth had asked about John, only to brushed off by numerous villagers, all of whom just repeated that John must be _somewhere_.

Well, John had been found only that morning, wandering into the village, caked in mud, cold, shivering, and with a fever. John had no idea where he had been; all he remembered was waking up under a tree. None of the villagers remembered that John had been missing for several days, not even Charlotte. It was obvious that John had not been taken by an ogre, because ogres never returned humans, especially children. But no one seemed to remember or care about John having been missing for days at all.

Elizabeth didn’t understand. How could it be that only she remembered? Or had she imagined John being missing? Everything was like this. No one remembered anything, and she had snatches and fragments of people and events in her mind that made Elizabeth question her own sanity.

“Elizabeth! There you are! I wonder that you found a spot like this for yourself,” said Jane, coming through a small thicket to the right. Elizabeth sat up, momentarily confused. She was sure that Jane had come upon her in this spot many times before. She shook her head slightly. It was just one of those things that never made sense, She smiled at her sister, whom Elizabeth believed to be the gentlest, kindest, and most beautiful person in the whole kingdom.

“Jane, were you picking vegetables?” Elizabeth asked, motion to the basket Jane held.

Jane’s cheerful expression fell, and she sat down beside Elizabeth. “There was an old woman…they said she was a demon, and to stay away. But…oh Lizzy, she was so old and frail and I felt so bad for her! I don’t think she was a demon at all! She spoke Saxon…she must have wandered away from one of the Saxon villages. I put together a small basket of food and took it to her. I’m afraid Lydia and Kitty will be very unhappy when they find out that we will have to do with much less tonight.”

Elizabeth waved her hand at the mention of her two younger sisters. Frequently lazy and never doing what they were told, Elizabeth rarely had patience for them. “Never mind Lydia and Kitty. Did you speak to the Saxon woman?” Their family being traders, all of them spoke Saxon, aside from Brittonic. Elizabeth and Jane had taken part in short trading trips to a nearby village where many people spoke only Saxon; their ability to speak Saxon was held in high regard.

Jane nodded.

“What did she say?”

Jane looked unhappy. “That’s just it, Lizzy. I _know_ that we spoke. She must have eaten because the basket is empty. I am not afraid…maybe she blessed me? I do believe that she thanked me. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember _anything_.”

Elizabeth looked hard at Jane. “Dearest Jane, tell me the truth. Where did you go to find this Saxon woman?”

Jane looked down at her hands. “I…they spotted her in the fields. I was helping Uncle Gardiner clean the bell tower, so I was up in the tower, and that’s where I saw her. By the time I had packed the basket, she had moved beyond…Lizzy, she was just outside the Great Plain!”

Elizabeth gasped. They were strictly forbidden to go beyond the Great Plain, the desolate land that marked the perimeter of the Great Beyond. “Oh my goodness Jane! Are you all right? It must have taken you hours to walk there and back! Oh, my dearest Jane!”

Jane nodded. “It did take me a long time. But…I had to. She was so old and frail. It would have been cruel to leave her like that. Oh, I also gave her one of mother’s old blankets.”

Elizabeth shrugged. Their mother had long since passed, and Elizabeth had no memory of her.

“Lizzy,” Jane said, taking Elizabeth’s hands. “I feel…I think there was sunlight there, and no fog like this. Or maybe less fog? Lizzy, why do you think I can’t remember? I also don’t John being lost, even though you insisted this morning that he had been.”

“Jane…I don’t know, but I was just asking myself the same question. Why is it that we don't remember anything?”

* * *

“Darcy, are you sure about doing this?”

“Charles, do you harbour any doubts? Any fears?” Fitzwilliam Darcy looked intently at his friend and comrade, Charles Bingley.

“I fear for _you_ , my friend.”

“Charles, I have been commanded by our King.”

“You were _asked_. His Majesty would have understood if you had refused. Darcy, I will go, but you have your own personal mission to attend to.”

“Charles, I am a Saxon warrior just like you. I will not refuse a commandment of the King, to help protect our people.” Darcy inspected his sword, which had been handed down to him by his father. “ _He conquers by fortitude,”_ Darcy said, reading the inscription.

“You’re lucky to be able to read Ingvaeonic,” Charles mused.

“It’s the language of our ancestors, we should _all_ make an attempt to at least learn,” Darcy said pointedly. “I have offered to teach you.”

“Well, now is not the time. We are under command of our King,” Charles replied. “Darcy – Fitzwilliam, are you _sure?”_

Darcy nodded resolutely. “The King has commanded us to find Querig. And if, perchance, I were to run into Wickham along the way, His Majesty has handed me a Royal Decree to do as I see fit. As we both know, it is highly likely that we will find Wickham on the road to Querig,” Darcy said, lightly patting the Royal Scroll that was on the table.

Charles nodded in understanding. “In that case, I will follow your command on both quests.”

“I am grateful, Charles.”

There was a public quest, and a personal mission, Darcy thought. But there was also a private promise.

It had been several years, but he had never forgotten.


	2. The Traveller And The Warrior

Elizabeth had woken up feeling uneasy, though she didn’t know why. Some time had passed since the incident with John and Jane speaking to the old Saxon woman. Though, whether it had been just one day or several days, Elizabeth had no idea. But it could not have been too long, she thought, because Elizabeth still retained vivid memories of both those incidents.

Her feeling of unease increased as the morning passed slowly, but so did a feeling of anticipation. She was not able to explain or understand either feeling.

“Lizzy, have you seen Lydia?”

Elizabeth shook her head plainly at Jane. “She’s probably hiding somewhere with Kitty; aren’t they supposed to finish weaving the baskets for Aunt Gardiner by tonight?”

As Jane was about to answer, a figure near the gate caught Elizabeth’s attention. “Jane, Kitty is waving at us. Let’s go see what it’s about; I wager that she would know what Lydia has gotten up to.”

The Briton village consisted of some forty or more individual houses, laid out in two rough circles, one within the other. A tall fence of tethered timber poles, their points sharpened like giant pencils, completely encircled the village. At any given point, the fence was at least twice a man’s height, and to make the prospect of scaling it even less enticing, a deep trench followed it all the way around the outside. The gate was usually guarded by a gatekeeper with two dogs; Kitty was standing just outside the fence, beckoning her sisters to come over.

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a look, and went over to Kitty, each pausing to pet the dogs.

“Kitty, what is it?”

Instead of speaking, Kitty moved further away from the fence, giggling like a little girl.

Jane frowned, and Elizabeth felt her earlier unease bubble up. Nevertheless, they followed Kitty until it became obvious that Kitty was going to descend down the hill.

“Kitty, where do you think you’re going?” Elizabeth asked.

“The fog is especially thick,” Jane commented. “We aren’t to venture beyond the fence today. Kitty, I’m afraid to walk far out.”

Jane was right, Elizabeth thought. The fog was thick, even for early midday. She could barely make out several feet in front of her.

“Kitty! I demand that you stop. Where do you think you are going? If you don’t answer me this very instance, I will go fetch our Uncle to deal with you. Or I will call one of Elders, and you’ll have to answer to them,” Elizabeth commanded.

That stopped Kitty, who pouted. “You’re two of the most boring people I know! Lydia and I saw something…he he he…well, maybe not a _thing_ …if you go and call anyone, you’ll get us both in trouble.”

Elizabeth felt her blood run cold. “Is it a baby ogre? Have you two captured baby ogre?”

“Oh goodness no! That would be horrifying!”

“Kitty,” Jane said gently. “Tell us what the two of you saw, and where you are going.”

Kitty’s shoulders fell. “Lydia was very pretty this morning, but I had made no effort. When we…up from the hill, we saw this man! Not like the men at the village – a man with a sword, and he had this dazzling smile and strong arms…anyway, I rushed up to put on a better dress and ribbons in my hair. I’m going to go find them before Lydia has him for herself!” With that, Kitty broke into a soft run.

“A _man??”_ Jane gasped.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said grimly, “and clearly not one from our village either. Jane, we better go drag them away before they get into real trouble.”

* * *

Elizabeth, Jane, and Kitty had to walk right up to the Great Plain to find Lydia. They finally found her seated next to a man who was lying on the ground, propping himself up with one arm.

“My oh my, it must be my lucky day! Look at all these beautiful ladies.”

“Oh, they’re just my sisters,” Lydia said, catching sight of them. “Jane, Elizabeth, and Catherine, though we call her Kitty. Sisters, this is the dashing George Wickham, who is a traveller!”

Elizabeth thought to herself that there was no such thing as a ‘traveller’. Kitty had been right in her description of the man. He was pleasing to look at, and seemed to have a strong build.

“Ladies, why don’t you join us?” he said.

For the first time, Kitty looked nervously at her two elder sisters.

“Lydia, come here at once,” Jane stated.

Lydia simply giggled. “You know there’s more sunshine here than ever is in the village. And it’s so boring there. And Wickham here is so delightful!”

“ _Mr._ Wickham here is a complete stranger to us,” Elizabeth retorted.

“Come now, miss…”

When Elizabeth refused to provide her name, Lydia did. “She’s my second eldest sister, Elizabeth.”

“Well then Ms. Elizabeth, do I not speak like you? Why then this talk of strangers?” Wickham had now seated himself upright.

“You may speak excellent Brittonic sir, but you are dressed like a stranger. There are none hereabout who dress as such, or loll about the Great Plains on their own.”

The man smiled. “Perhaps I am simply braver than those you have come in contact with.” Lydia beamed at this. “And I dress as such, because I am a traveller.”

“There is no such thing as a traveller,” Elizabeth stated resolutely. This Wickham was beginning to unnerve her.

“And yet, here I am, a traveller. Clearly there’s more to the world than the limits of your knowledge, Miss Elizabeth. Now, if you and your beautiful sister don’t want to enjoy yourselves, relax a little, that is a mighty pity, but why stop Miss Lydia from having her fun?”

“Lydia is under our charge!” Jane exclaimed, astonished.

Lydia scoffed. “La! They’re both so dull. Jane spends her whole day helping old people, and Lizzy is like a crazed old woman, clutching a piece of metal and muttering to herself when she’s alone.”

Elizabeth gasped. “Lydia!”

“I saw you had some little shiny thing this morning, so I took it when you were not looking. Don’t look so angry, I put it back.” Completely uncaring, Lydia looked at Wickham. “It was the most useless thing, so small with strange letters and misshapen arrows and shaped like so,” Lydia drew a shape on the ground to demonstrate to Wickham. “Must have been a child’s toy, with a horse with wings on it, or something like. It was very small. My sister is very odd.”

Instead of openly laughing at Elizabeth however, Wickham looked at her with guarded interest and caution. “Strange letters, strange shapes, and a horse with wings, was it? Well, that certainly is odd. However Miss Lydia, I am beginning to feel some pity for your poor sisters. They came all this distance looking for you, and you _are_ under their charge. Perhaps you should return home with them. I will amuse myself out here until it is time to move on.”

Jane looked at Elizabeth in surprise at this turnabout. Elizabeth herself was becoming increasingly suspicious. Why, suddenly, for no reason…

“You know, I daresay the mist is becoming thicker. Miss Lydia, be a dear, go with your sisters while you all can. My beauty, if we are destined to meet again, we shall.”

Lydia was clearly unwilling to leave, but with the sudden change of heart of and insistence of Wickham, she was left with little choice. Though she complained bitterly about the interference of her sisters, Elizabeth was nevertheless glad to turn their back on the man.

“Miss Elizabeth, a moment if you will,” Wickham suddenly said.

She turned and looked at him warily.

“Now, Miss, I did convince your sister to join you. I just need a moment of your time to ask for directions. You are clearly able to discern that I am indeed not from about here.”

“Just go Lizzy,” Jane whispered. “The sooner his query is answered, the sooner we can leave.”

Grudgingly, Elizabeth walked back over to Wickham.

First, Wickham simply asked her for the best way to get to the next village west of them avoiding the path of ogres. As Elizabeth explained directions to him, Wickham suddenly dropped his voice to a whisper.

“You’re not the only one with odd things, missy. Look-a-here.”

Elizabeth had to stifle her gasp as Wickham turned an object towards her. The same crest that was on her metal token was on his object, the similar strange letters, except his object was encrusted with jewels.

“I’ll wait for you here at sundown,” Wickham hissed. “I’ll tell you the secret of what you have, in exchange for whatever gold and wine you can find between now and then.”

And then he was smiling broadly again. “Well, I’ll be moving on then. God bless you all.”

* * *

Elizabeth should have been angry and upset with Lydia, but the usual job of Lydia’s talking-to fell on Jane’s lot that day, as Elizabeth was too confused to be up to the task.

Who was that strange man, Wickham? How did he have something that matched her protective token? It was impossible, and yet, she could not deny what her own eyes had seen.

Elizabeth thought of her Visions. If she went to meet Wickham, maybe he would unlock them for her. He would be able to explain _something_ to her, at the very least. And oh, how Elizabeth longed for clarity! For some way forward from her Visions and confusion and suspicions about hers – and everyone else’s – memory loss.

It was with all these thoughts swirling in her head that Elizabeth managed to just barely get through her day’s chores. She left the job of punishing Lydia entirely to Jane.

The whole day, Elizabeth debated whether to give into temptation and go find Wickham at sundown. She knew all the dangers associated with such a liaison. There was nothing remotely trustworthy about that man. In addition to that, she would have to take the coins she had been saving for herself and her sisters to get through difficult times; they all well knew that chances of marriage for any of them - even beautiful, kind Jane - were slim, with a dead mother and absent father. Aside from the expense, the fog had dangerously thickened. They were not to venture far, especially when alone on a good day, and this day had all the markings of a very _bad_ day.

Yet. Her protective token brought Elizabeth such comfort and a feeling of safety, and this Wickham had an item to match the symbols. How, then, could he be dangerous? Besides that, Elizabeth thought of her Visions, and ultimately, the thought of having them unlocked was temptation too much to resist.

Just before sundown, Elizabeth took most of her savings. She put on her thick coat, and wrapped a blanket around her for added measure. She took no wine with her, but instead hid a strong knife in her coat. She then lit a bag of herbs to stave away the ogres, and took a torch with her to light once a safe distance away from the village. That was all the precautions she could make, aside from trying to be aware and having her wits about her.

Elizabeth quietly slipped out not through the gate, but through a hole in the fence due to some worn-out pieces of timber. She had to claw her way out of the deep trench, and came out on the other side with the hem of her coat dripping with mud. She walked, as quietly as she could, listening to forest around her. The trick to avoiding ogres was to hear _them_ before they heard _you_.

Before she ventured too far, Elizabeth heard a slow rustling ahead of her that brought her to a halt. She was barely halfway from the village, and ogres were never known to come this close. Still, her heart beating wildly, Elizabeth reached to draw out her knife.

“I can hear you, miss. If but you stand still, you will see me soon,” said a deep male voice, somewhere in the fog ahead of her. "I mean no harm."

Elizabeth gulped, hand still on her knife. This was not Wickham’s voice. And that voice…

Rooted to her spot, Elizabeth waited. She saw the silhouette of a man coming out of the fog. Her attention was focused almost entirely on the man who walked towards her. He was probably no more than thirty but had about him a natural authority. Although he was dressed simply, as a farmer might be, he did not look like anyone else in the village. It was not just the way he had swept his cloak over one shoulder, revealing his belt and the handle of his sword. Nor was it simply that he had a strong build and was taller than any man in the village. His dark hair was longer than any of the villagers’ - it hung almost down to his shoulders and he had tied some of it with a strap to prevent it swaying over his eyes.

In fact, the actual thought that crossed Elizabeth’s mind was that this man had to tie his hair to stop it falling across during combat. This thought had come to her quite naturally, and only on reflection did it startle her, for it had carried with it an element of recognition. Moreover, when the man, striding towards her, allowed his hand to fall and rest on the sword handle, Elizabeth had felt, almost tangibly, a peculiar mix of comfort, excitement, and fear such a movement could bring.

It was the bearing of the man, the way he moved and held himself. No matter that he tries to pass himself off as an ordinary farmer, Elizabeth thought, he is a warrior. A Saxon warrior. One capable of wreaking great devastation if and when he wishes it. She just knew this, somehow.

Elizabeth gulped again. She told herself that she would return to these curious sensations at some later point. For now, she had to shut them out of her mind.

The warrior’s lips curled up into a very odd smile. He looked her up and down with such intensity that Elizabeth blushed, and dropped her eyes when she recalled the state of her coat. When she looked up, Elizabeth saw that he was now gazing intently at her, as though some mark on her face greatly fascinated him.

“What a very odd place to run into you, Princess,” he said, in flawless Brittonic.

So affronted was Elizabeth that her jaw dropped open. “You speak my language well, sir,” Elizabeth bristled, “but you are surely from a land far, far, _very_ far away if you think this is how a princess dresses.”

The warrior went on staring, studying Elizabeth and she took a step backward, bewildered by the continued scrutiny. She could not comprehend the meaning in his eyes, and therefore glared in response.

Finally, the warrior caught himself and bowed deeply.

“Forgive me, madam,” he said stiffly. “I thought for a moment…but forgive me. Living as I do far away in the fenlands… please excuse my error.” He spun around and walked away into the fog.


	3. An Attack

“Lizzy!” Jane exclaimed, when she saw the state Elizabeth was in. “What happened to you? And your coat! It’s caked in mud and dirt!”

Elizabeth allowed her sister to help her out of her now filthy outerwear. Exhausted, tired, and needing to share her secrets with someone, Elizabeth told Jane everything. She had faith that Jane would not judge. She told Jane about the Visions, the metal token, what Wickham had told her, sneaking out to go see him, and running into the Saxon warrior. She told Jane of how she ultimately changed her mind and returned – the fog was too much, it was too risky, she would never have found her way back, and the Saxon warrior had unbalanced her entirely.

Jane silently listened to her, helping her change. When she finished, Jane spoke. “Lizzy, will you show me this metal token?” Elizabeth nodded and did so. Jane turned it over and over in her hand for a long time before giving it back to Elizabeth.

“Lizzy, you must take care not to show that to _anyone_. Those are words from an old Saxon language. I don’t think anyone speaks it anymore.”

“Jane, how do you know that?”

“Seeing that has helped me…remember,” Jane said quietly. “Do you remember that old Saxon woman I took food for? I saw the same like letters on her things. I asked, and she said that it was an old Saxon language that none spoke anymore, and that she herself didn’t know it. She went on speaking, about how this land had become cursed with a mist of forgetfulness, a thing you have spoken of yourself. And then she asked me: ‘How will you have a future for yourself when you can’t remember the past you’ve had?’. I could not remember any of this the day it happened, but now you show me this and my memory has come flooding back.”

“Jane, was there once a war? Between us and the Saxons? Or with someone else? When I saw that warrior’s sword…”

“Lizzy, I don’t…I don’t remember,” Jane said helplessly. “That woman…she said more. She warned me to waste no more time. She said we had to do all we could to remember what we’ve shared, the good and the bad.”

“We _will_ remember, Jane. Our memories aren’t gone for ever, just mislaid somewhere on account of this wretched fog. We’ll find them again, one by one if we have to,” Elizabeth said with determination. “Let us write down everything we _do_ remember, so that if we wake up tomorrow with no memory of this conversation, we will have it written down.”

Jane nodded. “And we should keep writing everything, for such time until we are able to remember. You are shivering with cold, Lizzy. Come here closer to the fire. Let me brush out your hair and then you feel better. You get some sleep dearest.”

Wrapped in her blanket as well as Jane’s, Elizabeth moved closer to her sister.

“Lizzy, just one more thing. That warrior you met…why did he call you ‘Princess’? As far as I remember – which is not very far,” Jane added ruefully, “you have been here with me always. How can you be a princess?”

Elizabeth held her token for a moment. “Always here, except for when father took me away…I remember he took me away. I think. Jane, I am no princess, but…I know his voice, from somewhere. That much I am certain of".

* * *

When Elizabeth woke up, it was nighttime, and the fire Jane had fixed had died. She surmised that she had been asleep for maybe 3 or 4 hours. Normally, the noise and bustle outside tapered down as everyone readied themselves for bed, but tonight was the opposite. There was a hum of noise and activity outside that made Elizabeth frown. Hurriedly, she got dressed. Her coat was still wet to wear outdoors, so Elizabeth opted to drape herself in multiple blankets instead.

As soon as Elizabeth stepped outside, she knew that there was trouble. The stench hit her as soon as she took a few steps. The odour grew stronger and fainter as she walked, but never went away. Like anyone of her time and status, Elizabeth was well reconciled to the smell of excrement, human or animal, but this was something altogether more offensive.

Before long Elizabeth determined its source: all over the village people had left out, on the fronts of houses or on the side of the street, piles of putrefying meat as offerings to their various gods. At one point, startled by a particularly strong assault, Elizabeth turned to see, suspended from the eaves of a hut, a dark object whose shape changed before her eyes as the colony of flies perched on it dispersed.

No one paid any attention to Elizabeth, they were so distracted with their own business.

Elizabeth knew that something terrible had happened; never in her living memory (such as it was) had the village been like this. Never had they needed to pray to all known gods.

“Eliza! There you are!”

Elizabeth saw her friend Charlotte practically running towards her. “Charlotte! What has happened?” Elizabeth gestured around.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” Charlotte said, and her eyes were red. “Jane said that you were sick and asleep, but you should be here…oh Elizabeth, I am _so_ sorry.”

“Charlotte, you’re scaring me!”

Charlotte grabbed Elizabeth’s hand. “Come, walk with me. Your uncle and aunt and most everyone is in the hall. Are you feeling better?” Charlotte asked as an afterthought.

Elizabeth nodded impatiently. “I’m fine, I just needed to sleep. What happened?”

Charlotte was silent but kept walking until they to the village market, devoid of both people and offerings to the gods. Here, Charlotte stopped walking.

“It seems…Lydia had spoken to Maria earlier today. For some reason, I suppose that Maria was more malleable than Kitty.” Maria was Charlotte’s younger sister. “Maria came just an hour or two ago, bleeding, her shoulder, all that blood…”

“Maria is bleeding?!? She’s hurt? And Lydia spoke to her? Charlotte, you must start at the beginning. I don’t understand you,” Elizabeth said. The hair at the back of her neck was standing up.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “I want you to know before we go inside the hall. It seems that sometime earlier today, Lydia had spoken to Maria. Lydia had met a traveller outside – I have no idea what that even _is_. But she had told Maria that there was this traveller moving through and that he was carrying some treasures with him. Lydia had said that she knew he would be in the Great Plain at sundown and she had convinced Maria to go down with her to intercept this traveller. They had somehow sneaked out of the fence when the boy on guard wasn’t looking.”

“Oh my goodness,” Elizabeth whispered. _“Oh my goodness.”_

“Maria was brought staggering back an hour or so ago. She had blood everywhere on her, and she’s badly wounded in her shoulder. It took us some time to calm her down and get her in a state to tell us what had happened. Maria said that she and Lydia had tried to make it to the Great Plain, but the fog was too thick, and soon they had become hopelessly lost. They are so _stupid,_ Elizabeth! They took no herbs, no torch, nothing! And still, so excited at the thought of treasure, they had kept moving forward. They had found themselves at the brook.”

The brook, Elizabeth noted, was located at the edge of the forest and sometimes had fish when it rained especially hard for a few days at a stretch. As it rarely rained to that extent, the place was frequently overgrown with prickly bushes and vegetation. It usually took two grown men to cut down the path to the brook.

“And? Charlotte?”

Charlotte reached out to hold Elizabeth’s shoulders, as if she was afraid that Elizabeth would collapse. “Eliza, you have to stay calm, alright? We don’t know that the worst has actually happened.”

“Charlotte, I promise you to stay calm. Please just tell me.”

Charlotte exhaled. “Maria said that as they were resting, she and Lydia had been set upon by two ogres.”

Elizabeth felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She was so shocked that she couldn’t make a sound.

“According to Maria, these were no ordinary ogres. She says they were monstrous and able to move faster and with greater cunning than any ogre she’d ever heard of. They had thrown some thing at her – a piece of wood I think, because we picked out splinters from the wound on her shoulder. One of the fiends had carried Lydia off; Maria says that she only got away after a crazed and long chase. Maria said that she ran upon a camp of two men – Saxons - and she thinks that their fire prevented the ogre from chasing her further. The men had not been able to understand her to know what had taken place – Maria herself admits to being utterly incoherent and wild with fear. However, they had managed to do some immediate tending to her wound. One of the men had known the way to our village, and, suspecting Maria to be from here, the two men had packed up their camp and brought Maria here.”

“And Lydia? What about Lydia?”

“No one could understand what had happened until Maria was brought here and Jane and I were able to make her talk. Come, Eliza, everyone is in the hall, speaking about what to do for Lydia.”

The chaos she had awoken to, the putrid offerings to the gods…everything suddenly fit into place.

Elizabeth took Charlotte’s hand and started running to the hall. She felt her heart drop to her stomach.

Lydia must have heard Wickham’s directive to Elizabeth; that’s how Lydia knew that he would have been at the Great Plain at sundown. Lydia must have seen the jeweled object Wickham flashed at Elizabeth, she thought, because that must be the ‘treasure’ that Lydia had spoken.

Elizabeth could hardly blame Lydia for breaking the rules when she herself had, but, oh, foolish girl, why didn’t Lydia ever know when to stop?

* * *

Jane’s tears poured out at the mere sight of Elizabeth, and the two sisters hugged tightly, each filled with terrible thoughts.

“Oh Lizzy! I didn’t want to wake you because you were so…”

“Shhh, Jane, it’s alright. Where is Kitty?”

Charlotte spoke. “Kitty is with Maria and my mother. Kitty is also hysterical, and would be of little help here in any event, so my mother is looking after both of them.”

“Lizzy, I am glad that you are here.” Aunt Gardiner came and sat down next to her. There were so many people inside the hall, talking and arguing, that it was hard for Elizabeth to make out what was happening. She couldn’t see her uncle anywhere.

“What’s being done?” Elizabeth asked. “What’s being done to recover Lydia? Who has gone?”

Jane’s tears increased.

“Lizzy, people are terrified, hearing Maria’s description and seeing what happened to her. All of the men – the young men who _could_ go - are shivering and muttering and stuttering. They are too shaken to go and save Lydia. For all the urging of the Elders, no one has yet agreed to go.”

 _“What?!”_ Elizabeth gasped. “Every moment we waste makes it more and more likely that Lydia goes beyond our reach! Something must – ”

“Elizabeth, I am very glad to see you.”

Elizabeth stopped speaking and looked as her uncle came to stand in front of her, echoing the comments of his wife from moments ago.

“Uncle, how can no one be going to save Lydia?!”

“There is hope yet,” Mr. Gardiner stated. “Can you see those two men? They are Saxon warriors, the two men who brought poor Maria here.”

Elizabeth looked where he pointed. Shock upon shock, she saw the tall, long-haired man she had run into earlier, the one who had referred to her as ‘princess’. He was flanked by another man who, though not as tall, was still easily taller and stronger than anyone else in the village. Young men from the village were hovering nervously around them.

The two warriors wore swords, and in addition, each was clutching a spear. The shorter one smiled and seemed to be reassuring the men around him, but the taller one, the warrior that Elizabeth had run into, was looking straight ahead, not smiling and not speaking.

“Though Saxon, they both speak Brittonic – the taller one flawlessly. They say they are from a distant country. The fenlands in the east, so they say. I was explaining to them what happened, and thanking them for saving at least Maria. As luck would have it, they have declared that they will come to our aid. They went to gather their gear, and will now set off to search for Lydia.”

“But we’re Britons,” Charlotte said plainly. “Why are they risking themselves for us? They are Saxons, are they not?”

“Maybe so, Charlotte, but they are brave men, warriors, and I am grateful that they are going out on our behalf. Ladies, let us quickly go wish these men luck and good fortune, and thank them.”

They all stood and quickly followed Mr. Gardiner.

“Warriors, this is my wife, Lydia’s elder sisters Jane and Elizabeth, and Charlotte, sister to the girl you both thakfully returned to us.”

“Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service,” the man Elizabeth had met stated, “and my comrade, Charles Bingley.”

“We are all in your debt, and have come to thank you and wish you good luck and good fortune,” Mrs. Gardiner said. Jane nodded, but was too upset to say anything.

Elizabeth spoke. “Jane and I thank you good sirs, for your bravery in going to seek out our sister.”

“We are warriors,” Darcy said to her coldly, “and it is our duty to offer our services whenever we may be needed.” He turned to Mr. Gardiner, and spoke in what Elizabeth determined was a decidedly warmer tone. “Sir, we have left our belongings with Mr. Lucas, and we ask for your kind protection over such until our return. We have also given some instructions to your men here on how to protect the village until we return, and we ask for your notice in ensuring follow through.”

“Of course, of course, you needn’t even ask,” Mr. Gardiner said. “I will make certain that your orders are carried out. And, may the spirits protect you both on this journey.”

Darcy and Bingley bowed.

Soon, most of the village watched as the men left on horseback out into darkness.


	4. To Hell In A Handbasket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, it's obvious that this fic is waaaay out there to have any semblance of decent readership, but I'm going to keep updating as long as there's at least one or two people leaving reviews.

Neither Elizabeth nor Jane got a wink of sleep that night, and, as it turned out, nor did most of the villagers.

In hindsight, the lack of sleep, the fear, and the tension would go onto explain to Elizabeth the subsequent events in the village that would end up changing all their lives. However, on that night itself, no one was thinking much further into the future except somehow managing to stay alive and not get captured by ogres.

As per Darcy and Bingley’s instructions, men took turns keeping watch, and at no times did the torches dim. Even those not officially on guard hardly slept. There were many false sightings – both of the warriors returning as well as the ogres attacking. Several little meaningless fights broke out.

“Do you think that Wickham was also captured?” Jane asked during one of her vigils of staring out the window.

“I don’t know, Jane, but I somehow doubt it.”

“That warrior – the tall one – Darcy – he seemed to stare at you a lot.”

“Nonsense, Jane! We were together but for a few moments.”

“Still. I believe he did. And you _did_ run into him before. You should try and speak to him; perhaps he can help us remember something.”

“Jane, the man was cold and rude. I shan’t be asking him for anything, and I am sure he is not inclined to help in any event.”

Jane gave her a penetrating look, but spoke no more of the matter. For her part, Elizabeth refused to think of anything at all except the immediate situation they found themselves in.

It was nightfall the next day by the time the warriors returned. Elizabeth heard the cries of the villagers as she was sitting by the fire, almost dozing off. Bleary and exhausted with the lack of sleep, she slipped her arm through that of Jane, held Kitty’s hand on the other side, and together they stumbled out into the night. There were many torches lit, some blazing from the ramparts. People were moving everywhere, dogs barking and children crying.

The sisters found themselves in a procession hurrying in a single direction, and even if they _were_ Lydia's sisters, it was with great difficulty that they managed to propel themselves to the forefront.

They came to an abrupt halt, and Elizabeth realised that they were just in front of the gate.

Looking past the Elders in front of her, Elizabeth saw that Darcy and Bingley had returned. They were standing just barely inside the gate.

Darcy was standing quite calmly, to the left of a great bonfire that someone had started the previous evening when the warriors had left on their search. One side of Darcy’s figure was illuminated, the other in shadow. The visible part of his face was covered in what Elizabeth immediately recognised to be tiny spots of blood, as if he had just come walking through a fine mist of the stuff. His long hair, though still tied, had come loose and looked wet. His clothes were covered in mud and perhaps blood, and the cloak that had been flung over his shoulder departure was now torn in several places. But the man himself appeared uninjured, and he was now talking quietly to three of the village Elders, including Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could see too that Darcy was holding some object in the crook of his arm.

Bingley, meanwhile, just now walked up to the bonfire. He did not stand beside Darcy, as he was leading a horse, who seemed disinclined to be so close to the fire. It was only at the sight of one horse that Elizabeth noticed a second horse some ways behind Darcy. Bingley looked as if he had fallen from some great height, and was notably dishevelled. Like Darcy, he too was speckled in blood.

Neither men addressed the crowd gathered before them. Bingley seemed entirely distracted with his horse, and from where Elizabeth stood, it looked as if he was actually speaking to his horse.

Darcy, meanwhile, was speaking in a low, solemn manner with the Elders. His manner was devoid of any crude swagger, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

As Elizabeth stepped forward, deciding to demand answers, Jane screamed. _“Lydia!”_

It was then Elizabeth realised that Bingley had in fact not been speaking to his horse, but whispering to Lydia, who was sitting atop. The horse standing away from the fire, no one had noticed Lydia until now.

Lydia seemed oblivious to everything around her. Her eyes were fixed on Darcy’s back, to the side of Bingley. Intermittently, Lydia would angle her head to one side, as though trying to peer around Darcy to see something beyond him.

“Lydia!! You’re safe!!”

Elizabeth was surprised that the sight of Lydia, alive and evidently without serious injury, provoked in her neither relief nor joy, but a vague unease. Nevertheless, together with Jane and Kitty, she rushed up to her sister. Bingley helped Lydia off the horse, as her three sisters hugged her.

Elizabeth supposed that her feeling of unease had to do with the odd manner of Lydia herself. Completely unlike the usual Lydia, her sister was entirely devoid of any emotion. She just stood there, almost unseeing, demonstrating no emotions whatsoever. There was no relief, happiness, sadness or even general hysteria in Lydia. Compared to how Maria had been presenting even hours after the attack, it was like Lydia had just woken up from a deep sleep.

A woman – Mrs. Lucas or Charlotte or the widow Long (Elizabeth couldn’t focus on who it was) - brought out a bucket of water and started washing off the grime from Lydia’s face and neck, even as Jane and Elizabeth started to help Lydia walk back to their house.

Darcy now spoke in Saxon, just loud enough for Elizabeth to hear what he said. “Bingley, why not you carry the girl? They won’t let you in their women’s quarters, but still, do what you can to stave off the inevitable chaos.”

Immediately, Bingley did just that, carrying Lydia in one movement, and asking Jane to lead the way. Elizabeth looked at Darcy for a quick minute and found him looking at her. It was evident that he knew that she understood him; he made no move to look away. Almost briefly, Elizabeth thought she saw pity in his eyes.

She turned away and ran to catch up with Bingley. Why would there be _‘inevitable chaos’_ , Elizabeth wondered. Lydia had been found, and she was safe. They would only hold a celebration.

Though she was still silent, Lydia had twisted her head to look at an area somewhere in Darcy’s vicinity. Elizabeth followed Lydia’s gaze. There was a dull hum of men speaking. It seemed like Darcy was addressing the crowd, or it could be that he was still just speaking to the Elders and it was just the impression from where she was at.

Darcy then turned, and grasping in one hand the object he had been carrying, raised it for the Elders to clearly see.

Elizabeth saw what appeared to be the head of a thick-necked creature severed just below the throat. First, she thought she was looking at an eerily featureless face: where the eyes, nose and mouth should have been there was only pimpled flesh, like that of a goose, with a few tufts of down-like hair on the cheeks. Then Elizabeth realised that what they were looking at was not a head at all, but a section of the shoulder and upper arm of some abnormally large, human-like creature. Darcy was, in fact, holding up the ogre by the stump close to the bicep with the shoulder end uppermost. He then placed the remains of the ogre in front of the Elders, and Darcy bent down on one knee in front of them. Belatedly Elizabeth realised that he must be following some Saxon after-combat ritual.

The crowd recoiled somewhat, before curiosity won out and they edged forward again.

Elizabeth was not able to muster up sufficient contempt for the creature’s remains, and she tried to gently turn Lydia’s gaze forward, to which Lydia obliged.

Bingley was speaking nonstop, but Elizabeth paid no attention to him. As they finally reached their house, Elizabeth turned back once more, even though Darcy nor the creature were any longer visible.

Elizabeth couldn’t help thinking that the remains she had just seen did not resemble any ogre that they had ever heard of.

* * *

It was hard to say at which point it all went to hell in a handbasket. Jane would say afterwards that it was when Lydia became unhinged, but Elizabeth insisted it was before that, with the widow Long.

They – Elizabeth and Jane, Mrs. Lucas and the widow Long - had helped bathe Lydia, who was caked with grime. Charlotte had gone to her own home to prepare a fresh meal for Lydia. Kitty just hovered, not knowing what to do. Just like earlier, Lydia was quiet, only answering questions put to her but not speaking much. She was, however, becoming a little less stiff.

Towards the end, Elizabeth moved away, setting out some warm clothes for Lydia to wear, and working on the fire so that everything would be ready for Lydia as soon as the ablutions were done.

_“She’s been bit!!!”_

Elizabeth dropped the sticks she was holding at widow Long’s screeching. Kitty gasped.

“No no,” Jane protested, “I think that’s just some scar…”

Elizabeth rushed over to look. Indeed, she saw a mark on Lydia’s chest, no worse than what a child receives after a tumble. Still, at first glance, Elizabeth’s own suspicion was that it seemed like a puncture wound from an animal. Nevertheless, she joined Jane in declaring that it looked nothing like a bite.

Widow Long and even Mrs. Lucas did not seem convinced. Then Elizabeth noticed an identical mark on Lydia’s arm, which she tried to cover with a drying cloth. Belatedly, Elizabeth remembered Darcy’s words to Bingley about _‘staving off the inevitable chaos’_. The warriors knew, she realised, that something had happened to Lydia. They had known that the villagers would not take well to this news, and had wisely not said anything.

Widow Long did not wait; she immediately ran outside to raise the alarm. That started off a chain of village women entering their home to examine Lydia; each of them declared that she had been bit. At one point, Elizabeth said that she would bar the door to any more visitors, but Jane wisely pointed out that they could not afford to make enemies of their neighbours upon whom they depended, and moreover, breaking down their door would be a simple task even for a child. And so it had gone on, the endless stream of people entering and exiting their house, declaring Lydia to be bitten, the family to be cursed, and the mood darkening and fear increasing by the hour.

Charlotte, bless her soul, brought a fresh meal for all of them, and stated that she would sit with them. Elizabeth suspected that it was in part to stave off more hysteria from the villagers and prevent Lydia being dragged off there and then. The Lucases were well respected, and Charlotte being there had some symbolic value.

It was almost dawn, and people had mostly stopped trotting in and out when Lydia started.

“Mother does not shriek at me like Widow Long did,” Lydia said, completely out of the blue.

“Lydia?” Elizabeth stared at her, confused. Jane blinked rapidly, clearly feeling the same.

“Is your mother not dead?” Charlotte asked, at the same time that Kitty asked, “I thought Mother was dead?”

Lydia stood up, unperturbed. “I heard her voice. Mother was speaking to me, just now.”

Jane rushed over, quickly checking Lydia’s temperature.

“Is she having a fever dream?” Charlotte asked, and Jane shook her head.

Elizabeth quickly instructed Kitty to go stand at guard at the door, to hold off anyone who tried to come in until they understood what was happening with Lydia.

“Mother tells me that I can bear it, that it’s nothing at all. Nothing at all. If they break these thin walls, she says not to worry, because it is all under my control.” It was as if Lydia was in a trance.

“Lydia, dearest, Mother is dead. She has been dead some time now. You’re just having a bad dream.”

“Mother is travelling,” Lydia stated. “I control everything, so I have nothing to fear. Do you think she is still travelling?” Lydia asked, turning to Jane, who could only stare back in astonishment.

“Here, maybe she should eat some more,” Charlotte said.

“Lydia,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Lydia, please come back to us. Our Mother died a long time ago. You’re just hearing parts of an old dream.”

“She wanted me to do my duty,” Lydia said, but she allowed Elizabeth to sit her down. “She wants me to come and rescue her. I have to find the strength to rescue her, Mother says. Perhaps I _should_ eat.”

“Yes, yes! Let’s eat,” Charlotte cried. “That is an excellent idea. That will help you come back to us.”

Lydia ate again, this time more herself, commenting on the food. Afterwards, she looked up at them. “Aren’t you at least going to brush your hair? Maybe dampen your face a little? Are you actually going to look like that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The warriors, they are coming. They should be here soon to check on me. I am sure they are coming. La, I am so tired! Charlotte, no need to be stingy, hand over more of that bread to me.”

Charlotte managed to hand Lydia the last of the bread, but all the women were confused.

As predicted, within the hour, the two warriors were standing at the door, with a few rays of morning sun behind them.

Bingley entered first, saying all the required pleasantries and questions of concerns. Darcy said nothing, coming in after him and making a great deal of closing the door behind him. Darcy nodded at the women but said nothing. He then walked over to Lydia, and led her to the fire. Without a word, he took Lydia’s hand and examined the wound on her arm.

Darcy spoke in Brittonic, keeping his voice low. Elizabeth had to strain to hear him.

“So, young lady, have you kept your promise of last night? About this wound of yours?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve done just as you said,” Lydia replied dutifully.

“Your sisters here, and your good aunt must have asked you many questions about what happened?”

“I’ve not engaged, as you instructed me to, sir. They believe it an ogre’s bite and hate me for it. And if they don’t hate now, they surely will soon.”

Darcy exchanged a look with Bingley. “Once the wound’s healed there’s no need for anyone to wonder about it, let alone hate.”

Elizabeth decided that it was time to interject. “Pray tell, _sir_ , what you know about my sister’s wound and the manner in which she received it? Why are we being kept in the dark about what happened?”

Darcy looked at her with an inscrutable expression. “Keep the wound as clean as can be, and never let it be scratched, by night or day.”

Elizabeth had to bite her tongue in frustration. The gall of this man to hid things from her about her own sister! “There are _two_ wounds,” she said, trying to goad Darcy.

“Then I strongly suggest that _both_ wounds are kept as clean as can be, without scratching.”

“And how would Your Eminence suggest we do that?” Elizabeth drawled. “It might be helpful for us to know _what happened.”_

“Lizzy,” Jane whispered.

“You’re a bit of a medicine woman, aren’t you, Ms. Elizabeth? I’m sure you’re well familiar on how to keep wounds clean, regardless of origin,” Darcy said evenly, taking Elizabeth by surprise. How did he know that she dabbled in herbs? Had he asked about her from the villagers so quickly? _Why?_

“We’ll be taking our leave, madam,” Darcy said, addressing Jane. “I believe that we will be breaking fast soon, and then will go and meet with your uncle.”


	5. Two Plans, With Much Unsaid

“I can’t stand that putrid smell…these people have actually put out more offerings!” Darcy grumbled. He and Bingley had been offered food in the hall that they had gathered in the first evening; now it was empty. Darcy had closed all the doors and windows and the stench still seeped in. He had fast lost his appetite, and now just stared at the barely-touched food.

“You should eat something,” Bingley said, though his own plate was mostly uneaten.

“We should go speak to Mr. Gardiner,” Darcy said. “While I have little expectation of it, I am still hoping that the morning has brought a calming of ideas and things may yet turn out for the better.”

“I doubt it,” Bingley stated. “I walked by the Bennet house once more before I came; I had to ask that tall girl – Charlotte? – to move Lydia through the back to a different location. The situation out front was destined for trouble.”

“That Collins fellow – some spiritual preacher – is their cousin it seems. Their own kin. I heard him declare that it was a bite in the square as well,” Darcy said. "He was suggesting some terrible deeds."

“This will mean, unfortunately, that we will likely have to abandon the search for Wickham,” Bingley commented.

Darcy sighed. “For now, yes. We’re already behind on our actual undertaking.”

“Are you still angry with her?”

Darcy ignored the question. “Are you done with your food?”

“For not remembering?” Bingley pressed, in turn ignoring Darcy. “Everyone here seems deficient in memory, quite badly so. Perhaps…your harshness was not called for.”

“I have the pleasure of not understanding you,” Darcy finally said, even as he full well comprehended Bingley’s meaning.

“Of course you do,” Bingley retorted. “I am speaking of Miss Elizabeth; surely you are not going to be so simple with me? I think you should speak to her.”

“We all of us are born alone, and will die alone. In the meanwhile Charles, we are faced with some very, _very_ serious problems. Is it possible for you to focus on the matter hand?”

“I was just trying to find solutions to _all_ our problems,” Bingley replied.

“Memory loss in some is not an issue I consider to be a problem for _me_ ,” Darcy said haughtily, “and if it isn’t a personal problem for you, I suggest you put it out of your mind.”

He went to open a window, and examined the street ahead. Fact of the matter was that Bingley was correct in that Darcy was angry with Elizabeth. While he normally would never have spoken to Bingley about an experience so personal, the situation with Lydia had compelled Darcy to. He had thought at the time that it would be wrong to go into combat while hiding something possibly critical from his comrade and friend, and it seemed that his instinct had been correct. The situation with Lydia required that Bingley knew everything, no matter how personal or seemingly irrelevant.

What Darcy had not told Bingley was that his anger was a result of a different emotion; he was _hurt_. He was hurt that he had not been remembered, had not mattered enough, and…Darcy shook his head. What was important now was that he kept his emotions in check and dealt with the dangerous situation they found themselves in, not get carried away with what could have been.

“Come, Charles, we have to find Mr. Gardiner.”

The two of them hurried outside; they had not gone far when they spotted the contrasting figures of Elizabeth and Jane standing ahead of them in the street, heads close together in discussion with Mr. Gardiner.

As Darcy and Bingley approached, Mr. Gardiner smiled at them. “I was just on my way to see you both; please step into my home.”

Darcy noted that Elizabeth and Jane followed them inside.

“If you both will give me a moment; let me go fetch my wife. I think it wise that she be part of our discussion.”

Darcy stared steadfastly at a spot on Mr. Gardiner’s wall. He could feel Elizabeth’s look bore into him, but he chose to find the spot on the wall more interesting.

Jane cleared her throat, and smiled self-consciously. “My sister and I are honoured to meet men of such courage, generosity, and skill. Your deeds last night were remarkable. We apologise for not thanking you properly – or at all – before now.”

Darcy thought that she seemed almost painfully shy, and perhaps had rehearsed outside before speaking to them.

“Our deeds were nothing extraordinary, ma’am, no more than our skills.” Bingley said gently, and Darcy could hear the smile in his friend’s voice. “We had good fortune last night, and besides, it is always better in these situations to have a brave comrade by one’s side.”

“You speak our language well, sir,” Elizabeth said, and Darcy was forced to look at her.

Fortunately, Bingley responded. “Indeed, yes. We would make rather poor warriors if we spoke just our tongue.”

“You speak with such ease, though, like locals.”

Bingley looked at him, and Darcy appreciated that his friend would never share anything without Darcy’s agreement. He also realised that Elizabeth would not be satisfied with their standard responses, and he thought bitterly that it did not matter what he said, given her utter lack of remembrance.

“Bingley is Saxon through and through. And I suppose for what it matters, my blood is Saxon as well. But my grandmother was a Briton, so my mother spoke Brittonic as it was one of her native tongues. Thus we both learnt to speak your tongue alongside our own." Now Darcy looked straight at Elizabeth, wondering how much he could prod. "But you both speak Saxon so well, in a manner much unlike the Britons here. Can it be your native country is to the west?”

“We’re from this village, sir.”

“Yet perhaps in distant days you lived further west?”

“As I say, sir, we’re from right here,” Elizabeth said stiffly.

Darcy rubbed his chin in contemplation, but let the topic drop. It was useless. If Elizabeth didn’t remember her own village, there was no hope that she could ever remember him. Bingley was right that it was unreasonable for him to be angry at Elizabeth for her non-remembering. He had no right to expect that she would retain any remembrance of him, over and above her own history that she could not recall.

“Forgive our poor manners,” Bingley interjected, even though it was only Darcy who had displayed poor manners of any sort. “Travelling this far, we find ourselves mixing up places and people and seeing everywhere shadows of half-remembered things, all in a jumble.”

Fortunately, the door opened and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner walked in, together with Mr. Lucas. “Sorry it took long, but I thought it also better to have another Elder present. Shall we all sit?” Then turning to Elizabeth and Jane, Mr. Gardiner shook his head and said gravely, “Despite these men’s great efforts last night, our problems are far from over.”

They all sat down silently. “Us Britons must be a great burden to you both,” Mrs. Gardiner stated. “Perhaps you’re wishing to be back with your own kind, especially with you returning Lydia to us and the ogres slain.”

Darcy took a deep breath before speaking. He had to walk a fine balance in what was said and what remained known to only those present that night. “Those were no ordinary ogres, madam. It’s a great fear removed for my comrade and I that they no longer roam outside your gates. The girl – Lydia - though is another matter. Returned she may be, but far from safe. What is her situation amongst the villagers at present? What is being said?”

Silent though she was, Darcy noticed that Jane started to cry. Elizabeth sat resolutely still, but even upon her complexion Darcy could see rage and immense sadness at the same time.

Mr. Gardiner spoke. “Even as the village began to rejoice over Lydia’s return and your brave deed, some of the women found on her a small wound. My wife inspected it herself, as did some of the other Elders. Marks on her arm and on her chest. The whole village is calling it an ogre’s bite by this morning.”

“They stoned our house,” Elizabeth said dully. “This morning. Luckily, Mr. Bingley sir here had instructed Charlotte to smuggle Lydia elsewhere.”

“How can this be,” Darcy asked, “that they have forgotten so soon all what that girl had to endure?”

Elizabeth shook her head morosely. “We’ve had to have Lydia locked in a barn for her own safety, and even so, everyone here, our family, our neighbours, everyone throwing stones at our door and calling for Lydia to be brought out and slaughtered.”

“But how can this _be?_ ” Bingley asked, echoing Darcy.

Mr. Lucas shrugged helplessly. “Our villagers cannot look beyond their superstitions. It’s their conviction that once bitten by a fiend, Lydia will before long turn fiend herself and wreak horror here within our walls. They fear her and should she remain here, she’ll suffer a fate as terrible as any from which you both saved her from. The calls for her death are increasing as we speak.”

Darcy ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Surely, sir,” he said, “there are those here wise enough to argue better sense.”

“Those here with sense are outnumbered" Mr. Gardiner said.

Darcy looked in surprise as someone tapped his knee. Elizabeth was silently offering him the band that had fallen out of his hair. His mouth suddenly went dry. Darcy swallowed, and nodded to her while taking the proffered band.

Mr. Gardiner continued to speak. "And even if we may command restraint for a day or two, it won’t be long before the ignorant have their way.” 

“We’re _not_ having Lydia killed to fulfill the insane superstitions of villagers. They will have to kill me first for that,” Elizabeth declared. Darcy felt admiration rise in his chest, and he did his best to quash it.

“Lizzy, these warriors are as horrified as you are, and we three had some brief discussions about this when it started to unfold. I’ve proposed that they take Lydia with them when they ride out, imposition though this is, and leave her at some village sufficiently distant where she may have a chance of a new life. I feel shame to the depths of my heart to ask such a thing of men so soon after they have risked their lives for us, but I could see little else to do. I hope that these brave warriors have now considered my proposal, though they have an errand for their king and already delayed on account of our previous troubles.”

Jane gasped, and Elizabeth stared in shock. “Have Lydia _exiled?”_

“It is for her own good, girls. She will be killed here, it is only a matter of time.”

“Poor news to succeed the brave intervention of these warriors, but what else is to be done?” Mr. Lucas asked.

Darcy glanced at Bingley, and the other man nodded almost imperceptibly. “If we may impose with our own ideas on the matter,” Darcy began. “It will be a short conversation I believe. We have come up with our own view on what should be done.”

Mr. Gardiner perked up. “Of course, we would happy to hear your thoughts."

“Gladly, Bingley and I could take Lydia with us, leave her in some distant village, telling some story of how we found her lost and hungry on the road. However, I fear such a plan can hardly save her. Word will easily travel across the country and next month, next year, Lydia could find herself in the very plight she is in today, yet all the worse for being lately arrived and her people unknown. Or they may simply discover her wounds themselves, and come to their own conclusions. You see how it is, sir? Saxon or Briton, any village where superstitions have a foothold, she will never, ever be safe.”

“You’re wise to fear such an outcome, Master Darcy.”

“Forgive me, sir. Bingley and I have been impressed by the steady way in which Lydia and her sisters have faced each new terror set before them. They have conducted themselves with a calm I can only wonder at, especially in light of the hysteria elsewhere in this village. So as we thought of a way out, we remembered another with similar characteristics, not without coincidence.”

“We’re keen to do what we can, sir. Let us hear what you propose.”

“On our way for our King’s errand,” Darcy stated very carefully, “we heard in nearby villages about a monastery about a day’s travel from here, up on the mountain road east. We heard from several medicine women about a very wise old monk there, a monk called Jonus.” Darcy watched his audience closely, and knew that Bingley was doing the same.

Light of recognition flickered in Mr. Gardiner’s eyes. And Elizabeth…she sat up straight, a curious look in her eyes.

“Maybe it is that we are mistaken in what we have heard, but watching these young women here,” Darcy stated evenly, motioning towards Elizbeth and Jane, “I feel that my comrade and I have the right of it when we believe that it is the father of these young ladies who is currently serving Jonus. That is certainly what we heard in our travels.”

 _“Father?!”_ Elizabeth gasped. She looked shocked to her core, but for some reason, Darcy felt that she was not entirely surprised by the news that her father lived a mere day's distance away.

“If you strangers know our history well enough, how is it that we are forgetting them already?” Mr. Gardiner stated in amazement. “Of course, my wife’s brother – the father of these girls – has been at the monastery, caring for the needs of the monks there, but especially for Jonus. How could any of us have forgotten? I’d be doubting my own senses if such strange forgetfulness didn’t occur so often in this place.”

“It’s the same we noted in many villages,” Bingley said. “Darcy and I have witnessed many incidents of such forgetfulness on our way here.”

“Interesting to hear that, sir,” Mr. Lucas said. “And I was fearing this a kind of plague spreading through our country only. Though we all suffer enough from the fog, we seem to do so less than the younger ones. Can you see an explanation for it, sir?”

“Could we please get back to Lydia?” Elizabeth asked, and Darcy wondered briefly if everyone else here had almost forgotten Lydia at the mention of her father.

Darcy nodded. Again, he had to fight his admiration for her. “If Lydia were to be left with monks, who see superstitious nonsense for what it is, there can be no danger to her, even if the story were to pursue her there. Lydia is young, and even if she made some poor decisions in wandering about on her own, she will be a useful pair of hands for the monastery from the day she arrives. She can wash, cook, clean, and help her father in caring for the monks. If Lydia’s father, together with the support one of her sisters, would plead her case that would surely secure a good outcome. Of course, it may be the same good people would accept Lydia from Bingley or myself, but then we would be a stranger to them, and one to arouse fear and suspicion. What’s more, the errand which has brought us to this country will prevent our travelling so far east.”

As planned, Bingley took up the last part of their assessment from here on. Bingley only spoke of that which would alarm the least. “There is another fear, which we do not believe, respectfully, has been considered. Darcy and I killed both fiends yesterday. One took its mortal wound into the forest, and would not have lived through the night. The other stood and fought and for its sins we brought of it what you saw yesterday. The rest of the fiend crawled to the brook to numb its pain and sank there beneath the black waters. But you must admit that they resembled no ogres ever seen or heard of in these parts. We also do not know that there was only two, or four, or eight. Darcy and I agree that this village is in danger presently. We have walked, taken stock of your means and situation. Unfortunately, neither of us feel that you have the capacity to defend yourselves from a possible attack on your own.”

“What we propose is, that one of us stay behind to help protect your village. The other of us, will continue on our King’s errand. That will permit travelling at least part of the same road to the monastery, through the path through the mountains. Darcy or myself can happily accompany Lydia and one of her sisters to the other side. The mountains are known to contain dangers, and our sword may yet prove of service. And your bags too could be carried by the horse, for she’ll not complain of it. Past the mountains, it is a short journey to the monastery. Upon completing our King’s errand, Darcy and I will regroup here in your village, and will be glad to retrieve Lydia’s sister from the monastery at such time if their father hasn’t been able to make the necessary arrangements. What do you say, ladies and gentlemen?”

“I think it an excellent plan!” Mr. Lucas declared immediately, and Darcy suspected that any plan that would remove Lydia from the village would have met with the man’s approval.

Mr. Gardiner slowly nodded. “I think it sounds to be the better idea than mine. My wife and I are distressed so about Lydia’s plight. I’ve no doubt she’ll be received with kindness at the monastery; they are all Britons there, and my brother is a respected figure, practically an Elder in all but name. He’ll ensure Lydia’s welcome and safety.”

“Girls, what do you think?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.

“You’re suggesting,” Elizabeth said slowly, “that Jane or I take Lydia from here.”

When he came up with this plan, Darcy had no doubt in his mind that it would himself going through the mountain. It was his duty foremost to take upon his King’s commandment if the two of them had to split, thus leaving Bingley to protect the village. Accordingly, he had worried about which sister would accompany Lydia, until it occurred to Darcy that there was no conceivable reason why Lydia would not be accompanied by her eldest sister. That was how responsibility fell, always.

“The mountain road east,” Darcy said. “It is a hard road. A lot of climbing. But ultimately the safest for Lydia’s future."

“Hmmmm,” Mr. Lucas said, seemingly lost in his thoughts. “The journey to the monastery’s no easy one. The path will climb steeply for much of your day. And when at last it levels you must take care not to lose your way, for you’ll be in Querig country.”

Darcy’s eyes met Bingley’s. Neither uttered a word.

“Querig, the she-dragon?” Mr. Gardiner remarked. “I’ve not heard talk of her in a long time.”

“I heard that she rarely leaves the mountains now,” Mr. Lucas said.

“Please,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Who or what is Querig? This is the first Jane and I are hearing of such a thing.”

“Oh girls, it’s just talk handed down from ages,” Mrs. Gardiner stated. Her husband and Mr. Lucas nodded, dismissing the topic.

Darcy had a decidedly different take on things, and he made a split-second decision that Elizabeth deserved more information. “Querig is a she-dragon, and most stories pin her location to be somewhere to the east of here, on a high mountain. I daresay the mountain road to the monastery may indeed travel into Querig country. Though she may on a whim attack a passing traveller, it’s likely she’s often blamed for the work of wild animals or bandits. In my view, Querig’s menace comes less from her own actions than from the fact of her continuing presence. So long as she’s left at liberty, all manner of evil can’t help but breed across this land like a pestilence. Take these fiends which cursed this village. Where did they come from? They’re no mere ogres. No one here has seen their like before. Why did they journey here, to make camp in your forest? Querig may rarely show herself, but many a dark force stems from her and it’s an absolute _disgrace_ she remains unslain all these years.”

“But sir,” Mr. Lucas said, “who’d wish to challenge such a beast? By all accounts Querig’s a dragon of great fierceness, and hidden in difficult terrain.”

“You’re right, Mr. Lucas, it’s a daunting task. There’s talk of an aged knight left from Arthur’s days, charged by that great king many years ago to slay Querig. I’d guess the old fool has never given that she-dragon a single moment of anxiety. We’ll reach a great age waiting for the day he fulfils his duty. I maintain that it is a travesty that Querig remains unslain today, but that is a discussion for another time. We need to decide now what is to be done about Lydia.”

“If I could speak to my sister for a moment?” Jane finally spoke, and everyone nodded.

While the Bennet sisters spoke to themselves, Darcy addressed the remaining audience. “For a variety of reasons, Bingley and I have decided that he will stay behind and help guard the village. I will continue on our King’s errand, and accompany Lydia and whichever of her sisters through the mountain road to the monastery.”

Elizabeth and Jane returned a short while later.

Elizabeth remained expressionless, and Jane did all of the speaking.

“As I am the eldest sister, and the closest relative to Lydia, it is my duty to accompany her across to our father, of whom I unfortunately have little memory. At the same time, we have another sister Kitty, who has also undergone much shock in the last two days, and deserves the support, protection and love of her family, and especially, someone who can mend the existing difficult relations with the villagers here. Elizabeth and I have spoken about who is best suited to which task. I also note that between us, Elizabeth is the one blessed with better memory. Accordingly, looking at what both of our sisters need at this time, we have decided that Elizabeth shall accompany Lydia and one of these brave warriors to the monastery.”

For just a brief moment, Darcy felt his heart stop beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay everyone! Setting the scene is officially DONE! We're now heading into the actual story. 
> 
> Beware, here be dragons ;)


	6. Hide And Seek

_Travel to the monastery, go with caution and be sure to reach safe shelter by nightfall._

That’s what her uncle had told her before they left the village. However, Elizabeth knew that there was no conceivable way in which they were going to reach the monastery by nightfall. The journey was arduous. They had started by climbing the valleyside, Darcy at the front holding the reins to his horse, and Lydia and Elizabeth following behind.

It was slow, and difficult. Elizabeth wondered why Darcy had been so reluctant to stay on the main mountain road, insisting on the steep cut up the valleyside. Though he was fast, silent and uncomplaining, even Darcy must have found it trying.

But of course, it wasn’t just that. Lydia complained bitterly, all the way without ceasing. She complained about not wishing to move to the monastery, about not wanting to leave her sisters or the village, about the journey, about the steepness, about the climbing…in short, Lydia complained about _everything._

Elizabeth wondered that Darcy did not snap and tell them both off. Just as she wondered this, Darcy suddenly stopped, and turned to look at Lydia.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“Well, everything,” Lydia said pouting, “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”

“To every blessed word,” Darcy said, rolling his eyes. “I heard, just now, a change in your voice. A grimace. What is the matter? It is better to tell us now than whenever it gets worse.”

“Lydia?” Elizabeth prodded questioningly.

“It hurts. These wounds hurt, especially with fabric rubbing up and down the whole time.”

“Roll up your sleeve,” Darcy said. “Make sure not to rub your arm against anything, and if we come across other people, be sure to cover your arm.”

Lydia nodded.

Darcy looked at Elizabeth. “Perhaps, Miss Elizabeth, you have some herbs on you, or can locate some hereabout to ease your sister’s pain?”

Elizabeth bit her lower lip. She understood that the wound on Lydia's chest could not be dealt with as easily as the one on her arm, yet she had hesitations in suggesting a remedy. “I do have something that Lydia can chew on. However, the more you have it, the less effective it becomes. I am afraid that there is still a-ways before the monastery, and…”

Darcy looked at the path ahead of them in contemplation, and then turned to Lydia. “May I see your arm?”

“Sir, how is it that you are so familiar with ogre bites?” Elizabeth asked.

Darcy did not respond, and Elizabeth wondered to herself. Something was not sitting right. She tried again. “Sir, how is that an ogre, whose upper arm was almost as big as your torso, managed to leave such small, and precise bites?”

“Ma’am, next time I fight an ogre, I shall be sure to ask,” Darcy deadpanned. “We have much climbing to do; I suggest you give your sister a small part to chew on, otherwise the monastery will remain but a dream.”

Elizabeth openly glared at him. He was so cold and rude to her that it beggared belief. What had she ever done to warrant this treatment? She gave Lydia a tiny wad of herbs to chew on, and they recommenced their trek. 

She thought about Darcy. She had not forgotten their first meeting, the feeling of a memory about bubbling just below the surface. His voice was familiar. The way his hair fell, the way he wore his sword…

Elizabeth stepped quickly to be beside Darcy. He seemed surprised, but slowed down his pace.

“Sir? Master Darcy?”

“On a journey such as this, you need not stand on formality. You can call me Darcy.”

Elizabeth tried to read his expression, but his face was inscrutable. “Mas…yes, of course. Thank you. Darcy…I had been meaning to…hoping to speak to you of something.”

“Yes?”

“My uncle and Mr. Lucas spoke of the fog and how we all seem to lack any real remembrance of events. Your comrade spoke of the two of you seeing the same thing on your journey. Sir…Darcy…what…what do you suppose is the reason for our memory loss?”

“It is hard to tell, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Please. I think you know much more than you would like me to believe. Surely a warrior such as yourself would at least have suspicions?” Elizabeth heard Lydia humming to herself behind them.

Darcy looked at her, his expression softening. “I believe that your…lack of memory is related to the confounded mist this entire area suffers from. I also believe that the answer to your question may be found at the monastery. The monk Jonus would be the best person to question. With any luck, you will receive a satisfactory answer sooner than later.”

Elizabeth nodded. “You are very adept in this difficult terrain. Have you, perhaps, travelled here before?”

“I am a warrior, a servant to my King. I would do His Highness a disservice if I were not able to navigate foreign lands.”

“Sir, you are also very adept at not answering questions I ask of you.”

Darcy sighed, and looked at her. “Miss Elizabeth, is it your habit to keep speaking while making a steep climb such as this?”

“It would be rather odd for the three of us to travel in complete silence, don’t you think?”

Darcy refused to share what he thought, so Elizabeth stubbornly pressed again. “Darcy, have you perhaps travelled here before?”

“I have not travelled this far east.”

“Then how is it that we know each other?”

Darcy almost stumbled. He stared at her, surprise evident. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is obvious that we have met previously, and my memory being what it is, perhaps you could just tell me?”

Darcy stiffened. “Madam, as I said then, I mistook you for someone else. Endless travelling leads to mixing up people and places more often than you would suppose.”

With that, Darcy increased his pace, and Elizabeth found that she was not able to keep up.

* * *

“What’s that?” Lydia asked.

They were still on the valleyside, standing on a small, narrow plateau from which you could see for miles. Lydia had been panting and gasping, and even Elizabeth, far more active and used to tumbling about outdoors had been struggling. Without having to be told, Darcy had suggested that they stop to rest. He had a restless expression. Elizabeth understood that none of this was going as the warriors had planned. Lydia was simply not able to keep pace, and they were well behind in their journey.

“What _is_ that?” Lydia repeated.

“I don’t know, Lydia. I have never seen or heard of that.” Elizabeth said, as she stood amidst the stubbled heather to look. Inexplicably, she felt her heartbeat quicken as she felt Darcy come to stand beside her. He was so close that she could feel his arm rub against her own. In that instance, in her body’s reaction to him, Elizabeth knew the warrior to be lying. They _had_ met before, she was certain of it. She felt things, reacted in ways…deep in her heart, Elizabeth knew that they had a shared past.

“… the cove,” he was saying. “You cannot see the island, because of the mist up here, and the trees down there. But there’s an island just beyond that cove, about one third of a day’s boat ride away.”

Elizabeth didn’t move, but she turned her head to him. “What kind of island is it?”

Darcy stared ahead, expression wistful and faraway. There was a ghost of a smile on his face. “It is a special island. A place of strange qualities, and one who arrives there will walk among its greenery and trees in solitude, never seeing another soul. Occasionally on a moonlit night or when a storm’s ready to break, he may sense the presence of his fellow inhabitants. But most days, for each traveller, it’s as though he’s the island’s only resident. There are a few boatmen on the cove who will ferry one there, but they will ferry only _one_. And there is no return.”

“Ugh, how boring,” Lydia commented. “What will be the use of going on your own to never come back?”

“You need a lot of strength of character to manage that much solitude,” Elizabeth added, but she was transfixed by Darcy’s expression. It was as if he was living through a different time.

“You don’t need strength of character, if you have love,” Darcy said softly. “Occasionally a couple may be permitted to cross to the island together, but this is very rare. It requires an unusually strong bond of love between them. It does sometimes occur, and when a boatman finds a man and wife, or even unmarried lovers, waiting to be carried over, they question the couple carefully. It falls on the boatman to perceive if their bond is strong enough to cross together. There are couples who are wise and careful, and plan this journey for a long time, talk of it and dream of it over years.”

“Oooh,” Lydia exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “That’s sounds to be such an exciting adventure!”

“It sounds,” Elizabeth said more quietly, “to be tremendously romantic.”

Darcy scoffed then, a harsh and bitter sound. “Romantic, is it? I find little feeling of romance at the thought of being left on this side of the shore while my love is over on the other side, on the island forever.” Darcy turned to glare at Elizabeth, his face so close that she could feel his breath on her face. “What bonds of love can there exist in this country of mist, where people have forgotten everything? What memory is left here of who was loved or why? You may have strength of character, Miss Elizabeth, but I doubt that, in the recesses of your memory, you could find a bond of love strong enough to convince a boatman.”

* * *

The next part of the journey had been made in uncomfortable silence. Lydia, sensing tension but unable to understand why, and weary with exhaustion, had fallen silent. Elizabeth was convinced that Darcy had been trying to tell her something, and became frustrated for not being able to unlock her memories and angry with Darcy for causing this strife within herself. Darcy, for his part, stayed ahead of them, saying nothing, looking solemn, and only turning back to ensure that they were safe.

In this way they travelled, until they had found their way obstructed by a fast-flowing river. By now it was well past noon. They had made a partial descent through shrouded woodlands in search of the main mountain road, along which, Darcy reasoned, there would surely be a bridge across the water. Angry as she was with him, Elizabeth did not bother commenting or offering her opinion on the matter.

They had indeed spotted a bridge to the distance, just past a waterfall, but instead of making their way there directly, Darcy had insisted on resting amongst some trees located on higher ground, an act Elizabeth found more to be in line with hiding than resting.

Soon, Darcy’s actions became obvious, as a rider rode on the main road to the bridge. Clearly, Darcy wanted to avoid riders such as the one they had just seen. In addition to this, there were men at the bridge, maybe soldiers.

Darcy had suggested that they wait until the men had gone, for at first the soldiers had not appeared to be stationed there, but merely refreshing themselves and their horses at the waterfall. But time had passed and the soldiers had shown no signs of moving on. They would take turns getting onto their bellies, reaching down from the bridge and splashing themselves; or sit with their backs against the timber rails, playing dice.

Elizabeth, Darcy, and even Lydia observed well enough all that had passed from behind their cover of greenery, and once the rider had left, exchanged questioning looks.

“They may remain a long time yet,” Darcy said. “And you’re both anxious to reach the monastery.”

“Not particularly,” Lydia muttered, and Elizabeth wanted to pinch her.

“It’s desirable we do so by nightfall, sir,” said Elizabeth. “Talk of that dragon worries me, and surely only fools would be abroad here in the dark. What manner of soldiers do you suppose them to be?”

“Not easy at this distance, and I’ve little knowledge of local dress. But I’d suppose them Britons, and ones loyal to Lord Brennus. They have the dark uniforms, which I have heard is Lord Brennus’s preference.”

“We’ve nothing to hide from them,” Elizabeth said. “If we explain ourselves, they’ll let us go by in peace.”

Darcy gazed down at the bridge silently. The soldiers had seated themselves again and seemed to be resuming their game. “Even so,” Darcy said, “if we’re to cross the bridge under their gazes, let me propose this much. Miss Elizabeth, you will lead the way and talk wisely to the men. Miss Lydia, you hold the reins and bring my horse behind your sister. Also, pull down your sleeve. I’ll walk beside you, my jaw slack like a fool’s, my eyes wandering loosely. Miss Elizabeth, you must tell the soldiers I’m a mute and a half-wit, and Lydia is my sister, and we two lent to you in place of debts owed your family. Do not mention your father’s position at the monastery. I’ll hide this sword and belt deep in the horse’s pack. Should they find it, you must claim it as something you traded for, which you carry for your own protection.”

“Sounds like an adventure,” Lydia said. “I'm ready”.

“Is such a play really necessary, Darcy?” Elizabeth asked. “These soldiers may often show coarse manners, but we’ve met many in our village before without incident.”

“No doubt, Miss. But men with arms, far from their commanders, aren’t easy to trust. And here I am, a stranger who they may think good sport to mock and challenge.”

Elizabeth agreed with some trepidation. She felt that Darcy knew that he was in some danger, which he was not sharing with them. They emerged from the woods still some way from the bridge, but the soldiers saw them immediately and rose to their feet. Elizabeth looked behind casually at Darcy and Lydia.

“Sir,” Elizabeth said quietly, “I fear this will not go well. There remains something about you that proclaims you a warrior, no matter what foolish look you wear.”

“Princess, I’m no skilled player. If you can help improve this disguise, I’d hear it gladly.”

Elizabeth’s breath hitched, but she focussed on the matter at hand. “It’s your stride,” she said. “You have a warrior’s way of walking. Take instead small steps followed by a large one, the way you might stumble any moment.”

“That’s good advice, thank you.” Darcy muttered so softly that Elizabeth could barely hear him. “Walk us past these fellows wisely, and remember, that you need not fear. I am here underneath this disguise, and will protect you always”.


	7. Disguises

As they came closer to the bridge, the noise of the water rushing down the rocks and under the feet of the three awaiting soldiers grew more intense, and to Elizabeth had something ominous about it.

She could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. Elizabeth desperately wanted to turn around, to make sure that Darcy was behind her, but knew that she couldn’t show any outward fear. She listened to the horse’s steps behind her on the mossy ground, and shuffling that she prayed was Darcy. Lydia was as quiet as a mouse.

Elizabeth came to a halt when they were within hailing distance of the men. They wore no chainmail or helmets, but their identical dark tunics, with straps crossing from right shoulder to left hip, declared clearly their trade. Their swords were for now sheathed, though two of them were waiting with hands on the hilts. One was small, stocky and muscular; the other, a youth not much older than Lydia, was also short in stature. Both had closely cropped hair. In contrast, the third soldier was tall, with long grey hair, carefully groomed, that touched his shoulders and was held back by a dark string encircling his skull.

Not only his appearance, but his manner differed noticeably from that of his companions; for while the latter were standing stiffly to bar the way across the bridge, he had remained several paces behind, leaning languidly against one of the bridge posts, arms folded before him as though listening to a tale beside a night fire.

The stocky soldier took a step towards them, so Elizabeth addressed him. “Good day, sirs. We mean no harm and wish only to proceed in peace.”

The stocky soldier gave no reply. Uncertainty was crossing his face, and he glared at Elizabeth with contempt. He cast a glance back to the young soldier behind him, then finding nothing to enlighten him, returned his gaze to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth heard shuffling behind her, and received comfort knowing that Darcy was there. He had braved ogres to save her sister; she was confident that if things turned bad, he would protect her as promised. Inexplicably, something inside her that instance told her that she would never have to fear that Darcy would fight for her.

In the mannerisms of the soldiers, it occurred to Elizabeth that there had been some confusion: that the soldiers had been expecting another party altogether, and had yet to realise their mistake. So she said, “I’m just from the farming village down the mountain road, sir, on my way to the village beyond the river to my uncle’s home. We had hoped to travel by the monastery to pick some medicine from the monks.”

The stocky soldier, now collecting himself, replied an unnecessarily loud voice. “Who are these you travel with? Saxons by the look of them.”

“Two siblings just come under my care, that I must make the best of. My elder sister traded them for three blankets and a bushel of hay. Now I’m saddled with training them. Why my sister traded for them, I know not because as you see, one’s practically a child, and the other a slow-witted mute, so the relief they bring may be slender.”

As Elizabeth said this, the tall grey-haired soldier, as though suddenly reminded of something, took his weight from the bridge post, his head tilting in concentration. Meanwhile, the stocky soldier was staring angrily beyond her. Then, his hand still on the hilt of his sword, he strode past to scrutinise the others. Lydia was holding the mare, and watched the oncoming soldier with expressionless eyes. Darcy, though, was giggling loudly to himself, his eyes roving, mouth wide open.

The stocky soldier looked from one to the other as though for a clue. Then his frustration seemed to get the better of him. Grabbing Darcy’s hair, he tugged it in a rage. “No one cut your hair, Saxon?” he shouted into the warrior’s ear, then tugged again as though to bring Darcy to his knees. Darcy stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet, letting out pitiful whimpers.

“He doesn’t speak, sir,” Elizabeth said. She was certain that everyone could hear her pounding heart by now. “As you see, he’s simple. He doesn’t mind rough treatment, but he’s known for a temper we have not been able to tame.” Elizabeth smiled with as much humility as she could muster. “You must be busy with your duties, gentlemen, and we’re sorry to distract you.”

But the stocky soldier was still tormenting Darcy. “He’d be unwise to lose his temper with me!” he bellowed. “Let him do so and taste his price!”.

The soldier was over a head shorter than Darcy, even with the warrior being hunched with bent knees. Elizabeth thought that it was this obvious difference in height (and build) that led the soldier to fiercely punch Darcy in the stomach.

Both Elizabeth and Lydia gasped.

Darcy, maintaining his disguise, allowed himself to be assaulted, and fell upon the ground with a guttural cry, and lay there whimpering. Elizabeth rushed over, and tried to help him up but Darcy would not oblige, frustrating her. The soldiers all merely watched them in silence. She had to call Lydia over to assist, and the two of them struggled to help the warrior stand. It then struck Elizabeth that a slow-witted mute would not have understood that she was trying to help him; Darcy was simply maintaining his disguise.

Darcy had seen some terrible things, Elizabeth thought. He did not learn to behave like this without experiencing something awful first.

“Sir, if you’d let us pass, we’ll soon be out of your way,” she said, addressing the soldiers after she had finally righted Darcy.

The stocky soldier said nothing, looking like an angry man who had completely forgotten why he was angry.

The noise of the rushing water seemed only to add to the tense mood, and Elizabeth wondered how the soldiers would react if she were to turn around and lead Darcy and Lydia back towards the woods. But just at that moment, the grey-haired soldier came forward until he was level with the other two and spoke for the first time.

“This bridge has a few planks broken, Miss. Maybe that’s why we’re standing here, to warn good people like yourselves to cross with care or be down the mountainside tumbling with the tide.”

“That’s kind of you, sir. We’ll go then with caution.”

“Your horse there, Miss. I thought I saw it limping coming towards us.”

Elizabeth turned in surprise at the horse, and motioned Lydia to lead the horse. Indeed, the horse was limping. Darcy had disguised the horse as well as himself! Now, if anyone looked for them, they would be looking for a lame horse.

“Thank you, sir, I see that now. She must have hurt her foot somewhere on the mountain road; it was not in a good state. I hope it’s no serious thing, though we won’t mount her.”

“Those boards are rotted with the spray, and that’s why we’re here, though my comrades think there was some further errand must have brought us. So I’ll ask you, Miss, if you and this girl have seen any strangers on your travels.”

“On one days’ journey we’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Go on then in peace, Miss.” The grey-haired soldier stood aside to let them pass. “And please remember the unsteady boards. Miss, you’d best lead that mare over yourself. It’s no task for children or God’s fools.”

The stocky soldier, who had been watching with a disgruntled air, seemed nevertheless to yield to the natural authority of his colleague. Turning his back to them all, he leaned sulkily over the rail to look at the water. The young soldier hesitated, then came to stand beside the grey-haired man, and they both nodded politely as Elizabeth, thanking them a last time, led the horse over the bridge, shielding her eyes from the drop.

Once the soldiers and the bridge were no longer in sight, Darcy stopped to fix something on the horse’s foot, and suggested they leave the main road to follow a narrow path rising up into the woods.

“I’ve always had an instinct for my way through a forest,” he said. “And I feel sure this path will allow us to cut a large corner. Besides, we’ll be much safer away from a road such as this, well travelled by soldiers and bandits. Miss Elizabeth, I thank and commend your wiseness in leading us past those soldiers.”

Before Elizabeth said anything, Lydia scoffed. “You realise that you got punched because she made a stupid comment about you having a temper, right?” Lydia shook her head at Darcy, as if chiding a child.

Elizabeth turned scarlet in the face of Lydia’s off-hand criticism.

“Your sister spoke exactly as she should have,” Darcy responded mildly.

“Lydia is right though; your being hurt was my fault. I am sorry. I know a warrior such as yourself must be used to combat, but nevertheless, I hope you are not feeling the sting of it.”

Darcy bowed. “It was nothing, and we need not speak of this further.”

For a while after that, Darcy led the party, beating back brambles and bushes with a stick he had found. Lydia, now having somehow taken ownership of Darcy’s horse, held it by the muzzle, often whispering to the animal, followed closely behind, so that by the time Elizabeth came in their wake, the path had been made much easier.

Even so, the short cut - if short cut it was - became increasingly arduous; the trees deepened around them, tangled roots and thistles obliging them to attend to each step.

“I was just thinking, Darcy. You’re not a bad player at that. Your disguise might have had me fooled, and never letting up with it, even with that brute assaulting you.”

“Go carefully through that blackthorn there. It’s not a spot to take a fall.”

That was the only response Elizabeth received from him. As was the custom, he conversed not at all. She fell silent while she negotiated her way between two ancient trunks pressing against each other. Elizabeth thought back to his calling her ‘Princess’. It was the second time, and she knew there was some meaning behind it. With it, suddenly came a Vision just clouded by the fog that she wasn’t able to make it out. It was the first time Elizabeth had experienced something close to a Vision while awake. She knew that she was hearing Darcy’s voice, saying ‘Princess’, but she wasn’t able to make out anything more. By now, Elizabeth was well aware that asking Darcy outright would be useless, so she travelled in silence, frustrated about the fog blocking her mind.

But Elizabeth wasn’t made for anger and depression, and she soon turned her mind to the incident at the bridge. “What do you suppose those soldiers were actually there for?”

“Some errand for Lord Brennus, I presume. Neither safe nor proper, I reckon.”

It was hard to say if Darcy had been right about his path cutting off a corner, but in any case, they eventually emerged out of the woods back onto the main road. Here it was wheel-rutted and boggy in parts, but now they could walk more freely, and in time the path grew drier and more level.

Then Darcy brought them to a halt again and indicated the ground before them. “There’s a solitary rider not far before us,” he said. And they did not go much further before they saw ahead of them a clearing to the side of their road, and fresh tracks turning into it.

Exchanging glances, they stepped forwards cautiously.

As the clearing came more into view, they saw it was of a fair size: perhaps once, in more prosperous times, someone had hoped to build a house here with a surrounding orchard. The path leading off from the main road, though overgrown, had been dug with care, ending in a large circular area, open to the sky except for one huge spreading oak at its centre. From where they now stood, they could see a figure seated in the shadows of the tree, his back against the trunk. He was in profile to them, and appeared to be in armour: two metal legs stuck out stiffly onto the grass in a childlike way. The face itself was obscured by foliage sprouting from the bark, though they could see he wore no helmet. A saddled horse was grazing contentedly nearby.

“Declare who you are!” the man called out from under the tree. “All bandits and thieves I’ll rise to meet sword in hand!”

“Answer him, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy whispered. “Let’s discover what he’s about.”

“We’re simple wayfarers, sir,” Elizabeth called back. She repeated her story from earlier. “I’m just from the farming village down the mountain road, sir, on my way to the village beyond the river to my uncle’s home. We had hoped to travel by the monastery to pick some medicine from the monks. We wish only to go by in peace.”

“How many are you? And is that a horse I hear?”

“One, sir. Otherwise we are three. Myself, and with me a young girl and her half-wit mute brother, lately exchanged for some goods by their kin.”

“Then come over to me, friends! I have bread here to share, and you must long for rest, as I do for your company.”

“Shall we go to him, Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.

“I say we do,” Darcy said. “He’s no danger to us and sounds a man of decent years. All the same, let’s perform our drama as before. I’ll once more affect a slack jaw and foolish eyes.”

“But this man is armoured and armed,” Elizabeth said. “Are you certain your own weapon is ready enough, packed on a horse amidst blankets and honey pots?”

Darcy chuckled quietly. “It’s well my sword’s hidden from suspicious eyes, Princess. And I’ll find it soon enough when I need it.”

“Come forth, friends!” the stranger shouted, not adjusting his rigid posture under the tree. “No harm will come to you! I’m a Briton, and decorated by King Arthur himself! Armed, it’s true, but come closer and you’ll see I’m just a whiskery old fool. This sword and armour I carry only out of duty to my king, the great and beloved Arthur, now many years in heaven, and it’s almost as long surely since I drew in anger. My old battlehorse, Horace, you see him there. We’ll travel like this, in full armour, in the name of our great king, and will do so till neither of us can take another step. Come friends, don’t fear me!”

They turned into the clearing, and as they approached the oak, Elizabeth saw that indeed, the man was no threatening figure. His armour was frayed and rusted, though no doubt he had done all he could to preserve it. His tunic, once white, showed repeated mending. The face protruding from the armour was kindly and creased; above it, several long strands of snowy hair fluttered from an otherwise bald head.

Elizabeth cocked her head to the side. She _knew_ this man. “Darcy!” she hissed. “I know him!”. Elizabeth didn't know when she had fallen into the pattern of trusting Darcy implicitly.

Darcy nodded, and gently, held her dress and pulled Elizabeth behind him. Lydia, on noticing this, immediately stopped walking altogether.

“Ah, the holy fathers at the monastery,” the man kept speaking. “I’m sure they’ll receive you kindly. They were a great help to Horace last spring when he had a poisoned hoof. But if you seek a cure for your mute, I fear it’s only God himself can bring speech to his lips.”

Darcy stepped forward in a few quick strides, the foolish look vanished from his features. “Allow me then to surprise you, sir,” he said. “Speech is restored to me."

The man under the tree started, and stared at Darcy, who gazed back with a dark look.

Darcy was the first to speak. "Sir Thomas Bennet, perhaps you will honour your daughters by standing up and greeting them.”


	8. Danger Seen And Unseen

The next few minutes passed in a blur.

The man underneath the tree struggled a bit to stand up, and turned to look at them. Lydia still cowered behind the horse, Elizabeth knew not why. She herself remained firmly behind Darcy until he gently moved aside.

“Elizabeth, your father needs to see you,” he whispered. “He can’t recognise you if he can’t see you.”

And so she stepped forward. Elizabeth couldn’t understand her own feelings. _She_ was the one who had recognised the…her father as someone she had known. And now that she was close up to him, there was a tug of familiarity. Still, she had felt safe standing behind Darcy, and that was the position she wanted to resume. Her head was beginning to spin by all the new and old information that she had been forced to face in the last two days.

“Lizzy! It _is_ you! Your voice was so familiar, but these old eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I was half asleep when speaking to you there. Oh, my dear girl, what a beauty you have grown into!”

At this Elizabeth was enveloped in a hug like no other, as her father was wearing armour. Afterwards, he greeted Lydia in much the same manner; Darcy seemed to have coaxed her out from behind the horse.

Lydia then behaved in the oddest manner. She crinkled her up in an animal way, much like a dog. She sniffed around her father, up and down.

“Lydia, child, what is it that you are doing?”

Darcy was next to Lydia in a trice. He put his hands under Lydia, effectively controlling her movement. “You must be tired after our long journey. You must sit, have some water, and rest.” With that, Darcy moved Lydia away from Sir Bennet and sat her down on the ground. Elizabeth saw Lydia whisper to Darcy, but she had no idea what her sister said.

Something was not sitting right with Elizabeth, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Sir Bennet reached forward, his armour complaining, and removed a loaf from a sack in the grass before him. “This is fresh baked, given to me passing a mill not an hour ago. Come, my children, sit beside me and share it.”

Elizabeth lowered herself down onto the gnarled roots of the oak. She felt immediately grateful for the mossy bark behind her, and when the bread was passed, it was soft and fresh.

But Darcy did not sit down. He wandered away to his horse, and led the horse forward until the reins rested on the ground next to Lydia.

“Now, my children. You must tell me what brings you here.”

“You are not Mother,” Lydia said.

“Oh, Lydia, dearest,” Elizabeth replied, her sister’s strange ramblings by the fireside coming rushing back. “Mother died when we were children. This is _Father.”_

“Is she alright?" Sir Bennet inquired.

“You are not Mother,” Lydia repeated. “But you saw her. You have seen Mother!”

Elizabeth bit her lip, wondering if Lydia was actually going to be struck down with a fever.

Sir Bennet smiled as you would to a very small child. “Well, of course, I have seen your mother, but that would be a long time ago now.”

“Miss Lydia,” Darcy said, “there are two horses here. Why not you take your bread with you, and feed them an apple each? They will likely prefer to stand in the tall grass over there, hmmm?”

Lydia looked at Darcy blankly, until he restated his suggestion to her twice, putting the reins in her hand. Finally, nodding in a daze, Lydia walked the horse away, muttering to the creature.

“Sir, you must forgive my not greeting you sooner,” Sir Bennet addressed Darcy, suspicion and curiosity lacing his features. “But it has been so long since I have seen my daughters, and I was awe-struck. I hope you weren’t offended. Perhaps I should inquire from you what has brought you here.”

“Perhaps you should,” Darcy replied nonchalantly. A little _too_ nonchalantly, Elizabeth thought. “But it is your daughter’s story to tell, not mine.”

Haltingly, Elizabeth told her father all that had happened in the last several days. She made no mention of Wickham, her Visions, or the fact that she had known Darcy somewhere, somehow.

As she spoke, Elizabeth began to remember more of this man who was her father. She saw snatches of memories in her mind, of riding a cart with him as a little girl, being placed atop a horse, and playing with a stick in a place with a lot of green and sunlight, quite unlike their village. She suddenly remembered Darcy asking her back in the village if she had always lived there, and perhaps she had lived west in a time past. She glanced at Darcy, but his face was blank.

Sir Bennet nodded at the end of the story. “Indeed, the monastery will be the best place for our Lydia. She will be safe and protected there.”

“We were told, Sir, that you were serving the monk Jonus, not wandering about the country in this state,” Darcy commented.

“My daughter has spoken, Saxon, but tell me now what sort you are that I in turn have no cause to fear you.”

“The name is Darcy, sir, from the fenlands in the east, travelling these parts on my King’s errand.”

“Ah. Far from home indeed.”

Elizabeth then looked to Darcy, suspicion forming in her mind. How had he known that this man was her father? Darcy had not seen him any better than her, and how, _how_ could he have known that a man he had never met was her father?

“Far from home, and these roads are strange to me,” Darcy continued, and Elizabeth guessed that somehow beneath his genial demeanour, Darcy was not viewing her father as a friend. “All the more fortunate then to chance upon you, sir, brave knight of Arthur, from those western lands, well known to ride in these parts.”

“Right enough, knight of the great Arthur who once ruled these lands with such wisdom and justice. I was settled many years in the west, but these days Horace and I travel where we may.”

Darcy nodded. “If my hours were my own, I’d ride west this very day and breathe the air of that country. But I’m obliged to complete my errand and hurry back with news of it. Yet it’s an honour indeed to meet a knight of the great Arthur. Saxon though I am, his name is one I hold in esteem.”

Unable to repress herself any longer, Elizabeth turned to Darcy accusingly. “How did you know that this was my father? He’s supposed to be at the monastery, caring for the monk Jonus.”

“Yes, the very same thing I commented on moments ago,” Darcy said noncommittally. “How is it that we chance upon you here, sir?”

“That’s not the point!” Elizabeth almost shouted. “How did you know that this was my father?”

“Lizzy, dear, you must not shout at one who has brought you to me, no matter accidentally. But sir, perhaps you can ease my daughter’s mind by answering her query.”

“That is a simple thing,” Darcy said. “Your exploits as a knight of Arthur are well known even in the fenlands; and on my journey here, we heard talk of a Bennet, caring for the monks. Who else could it have been, for no ordinary countryman would have been granted such a privilege at the monastery. Of course, no one at the village remembered you as a knight, so I had _some_ doubts. But then we chanced upon you here; in armour from a time long past, unknown and unmentioned by the soldiers at the bridge. Who else could you have been? And, perhaps you cannot see without the aid of a reflection, but you both share the same face cut. And the same eyes. I have never met anyone with those eyes.”

Darcy spoke well, but Elizabeth felt that he was not speaking quite truthfully. Or maybe he was, but was keeping some other truth to himself. So caught up in Darcy was she that Elizabeth failed to notice that her father had never answered Darcy’s repeated question about what he was doing in this state.

“Since we’re now finally speaking frankly, perhaps I may ask something more of you,” Elizabeth asked boldly. “You say you’re in this country on your king’s errand. But why so anxious to adopt your disguise travelling through a country long settled in peace? I think I deserve to know the full nature of our companion, and who his friends and enemies might be.”

Darcy looked at her with an odd smile. “Well, I would hope I am amongst friends, but perhaps that is wishful thinking on my part. Here I am a Saxon crossing lands ruled by Britons, and in these parts by the Lord Brennus, whose guards roam boldly to gather their taxes of corn and livestock. I wish no quarrel of the sort may come from a misunderstanding. Hence my disguise, and we’ll all of us move more safely for it.”

“Yet I saw on the bridge Lord Brennus’s guards seemed not to be passing their time idly, but stationed there for a purpose, and if not for the fog clouding their minds, they might have tested you more closely. Can it be, you’re some enemy to Lord Brennus?”

For a moment Darcy appeared lost in thought, following with his eyes one of the gnarled roots stretching from the oak’s trunk and past where he stood, before burrowing itself into the earth. “Very well, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “I’ll speak fully. We’ve heard rumours in the east of our fellow Saxons across this land ill used by Britons. My King, worrying for his kin, sent me on this mission to observe the real state of affairs.”

“I understand well your position, sir,” said Sir Bennet, speaking after a long period of silence. “Horace and I have found ourselves on Saxon-governed land and feel the same need for caution. Then I wish to be rid of this armour and taken for a humble farmer. But if we left this metal somewhere, how would we ever find it again? And even though it’s been some years since Arthur fell, isn’t it our duty still to wear his crest with pride for all to see? So we go on boldly and when men see I’m a knight of Arthur, I’m happy to report they look on us gently.”

“It’s no surprise you’re welcomed in these parts, Sir Bennet,” Darcy said. “But can it really be the same in those countries where Arthur was once such a dreaded enemy?”

“Horace and I find our king’s name well received everywhere, sir, even in those countries you mention. For Arthur was one so generous to those he defeated they soon grew to love him as their own.”

For some time - in fact, ever since Arthur’s name had first been mentioned - a nagging, uneasy feeling had been troubling Elizabeth. Now at last, as she listened to Darcy and her father talk, a fragment of memory came to her. It was not much, but she remembered standing inside a tent, a large one of the sort an army will erect near a battlefield. It was night, and there was a heavy candle flickering, and the wind outside making the tent’s walls suck and billow. There were others in the tent with her. Several others, perhaps, but she could not remember their faces. She recalled the smell of blood. She had been angry about something, but had understood the importance of hiding her anger at least for the time being.

“Our beloved Arthur brought lasting peace here between Briton and Saxon,” Sir Bennet said, “and though we still hear of wars in distant places, here we’ve long been friends and kin.”

“All I’ve seen agree with your words,” Darcy said, “and I’m eager to carry back a happy report, though I’ve yet to see the lands beyond these hills. Sir Bennet, I don’t know if ever again I’ll be free to ask this of one so wise, so let me do so now. By what strange skill did your great king heal the scars of war in these lands that a traveller can see barely a mark or shadow left of them today?”

“The question does you credit. My reply is that the great Arthur was a ruler never thought himself greater than God, and always prayed for guidance. So it was that the conquered, no less than those who fought at his side, saw his fairness and wished him as their king.”

“Even so, sir, isn’t it a strange thing when a man calls another brother who only yesterday slaughtered his children? And yet this is the very thing Arthur appears to have accomplished.”

“You touch the heart of it just there, Master Darcy. Slaughter children, you say. And yet Arthur charged us at all times to spare the innocents caught in the clatter of war. More, sir, he commanded us to rescue and give sanctuary when we could to all women, children and elderly, be they Briton or Saxon. On such actions were bonds of trust built, even as battles raged.”

“What you say rings true, and yet it still seems to me a curious wonder,” Darcy replied. “Do you not feel it a remarkable thing, how Arthur has united this country?” He now turned to Elizabeth. “What do you think, Miss Elizabeth. You must have memory of those times of bloodshed and death.”

Elizabeth, shocked at being so addressed by Darcy, started.

However, without waiting for an answer, Darcy suddenly got up and moved away from her. At the same time, Lydia, who had drifted back to the road, was now shouting, and then came the beating of rapidly approaching hooves.

Later when she thought back, it occurred to Elizabeth that Darcy must indeed have become preoccupied with their curious conversation, for the usually alert warrior would have noticed the danger sooner.

However, when the rider turned into the clearing, Darcy was well on his feet.

The rider then slowed the horse with admirable control, and came trotting towards the great oak. Elizabeth recognised immediately the tall, grey-haired soldier who had spoken to them at the bridge.

The man wore a faint smile, but was approaching them with his sword drawn, though pointed downwards, the hilt resting on the edge of the saddle. He came to a halt where just a few more of the animal’s strides would have brought him to the tree. “Good day, Sir Bennet,” he said, bowing his head a little.

Sir Bennett gazed up contemptuously from where he sat. “What do you mean by this, sir, arriving here sword unsheathed?”

“Forgive me, Sir. I wish only to question these companions of yours.” He looked down at Darcy, who had again let his jaw drop slackly, and was giggling to himself. Without taking his eyes off Darcy, the soldier shouted “Girl, move that horse no closer!” For indeed, behind him, Lydia had been approaching with Darcy’s horse.

The tension was palpable, and Elizabeth felt fear rise in her throat. She looked to her father, but he just remained seated on the ground.

“Hear me, girl! Let go the rein and come stand here before me beside your idiot brother. I’m waiting, girl!”

Lydia looked to Elizabeth, who nodded. Better abide and cause no trouble. Lydia left the horse and came to join Darcy. As she did so, the soldier adjusted slightly the position of his horse. Elizabeth, noticing this, understood immediately that the soldier was maintaining a particular angle and distance between himself and his charges that would give him the greatest advantage in the event of sudden conflict.

The small adjusting of the horse had made it practically suicidal for an unarmed man, as Darcy was, to storm the rider. The soldier’s new position seemed also to have taken expert account of Darcy’s horse, loose some distance behind the soldier’s back. Darcy was now unable to run for his horse without making a wide curve to avoid the sword side of the rider, making it certain he would be killed before reaching his destination.

Elizabeth noted all this with increasing dread, and could not understand why her father remained seated on the ground, being of no use to anyone. Sir Bennet maintained his position, apparently stuck to the foot of the oak.

Unable to bear it any longer, Elizabeth said, “You should stand.”

He looked at her in silence, and struggled to his feet. When finally he straightened to his full height in his armour and pulled back his shoulders, he was an impressive sight. But Sir Bennet seemed content to stare moodily at the soldier, and so Elizabeth tried to take control of the situation.

“Why do you come upon us like this, sir, and we are but simple wayfarers? Do you not remember how you quizzed us an hour or so ago, by the waterfall?”

“I recall you well,” the grey-haired soldier said. “Though when we last met a strange spell had fallen on us guarding the bridge that we forgot our very purpose being there. Only now, my post relieved and riding to our camp, it all suddenly returns to me. Then I thought of you, Miss, and your party slipping past, and turned my horse to hurry after you. Hey! Don’t wander, I say! Remain beside your idiot brother!”

Lydia sulkily returned to Darcy’s side and looked inquiringly at him. The latter was still giggling quietly, a line of saliva spilling from one corner of his mouth. His eyes were roaming wildly, but Elizabeth guessed that Darcy was in fact taking careful measure of the distance to his own horse, and the proximity of his opponent, and in all probability coming to the same conclusions as Elizabeth.

Then, the grey-haired soldier dismounted. When finally he stood to face Darcy and Lydia, he was once more at exactly the correct distance and angle to them; his sword, moreover, was carried so as not to exhaust his arm, while his horse shielded him from any unexpected assault from the rear.

“I’ll tell you what slipped our mind when we last met, Miss. We’d just received word of a Saxon warrior left a nearby village bringing with him a wounded girl.” The soldier nodded at Lydia. “Now, Miss, I don’t know what you have to do with this matter. I seek only this Saxon and the girl. Speak honestly and no harm will visit you.”

“There’s no warrior here, sir. And we’ve no quarrel with you, nor with Lord Brennus who I suppose to be your master.” She looked to her father for assistance, but he remained resolutely silent.

“Do you know what you speak of? Lend a mask to our enemies and you’ll answer to us, whatever your gentility. Who are these you travel with, this mute and this girl?”

“As I said before, sir, they were given to my sister by debtors, in place of blankets and a bushel of hay. They’ll work a year to pay their family’s debt.”

“Sure you’re not mistaken, Miss?”

“I know not whom you seek, sir, but it wouldn’t be these poor Saxons. And while you spend your time with us, your enemies move freely elsewhere.”

The soldier gave this consideration. “Sir Bennet,” he asked. “What do you know of these people?”

“They chanced on us as Horace and I rested here. I believe them to be simple creatures.”

The soldier once more scrutinised Darcy’s features. “A mute fool, is it?” He took two steps forward and raised the sword so the point was aimed at Darcy’s throat. “But he surely fears death like the rest of us.”

Darcy went on giggling, then smiled foolishly at Lydia beside him.

Finally, Sir Bennet spoke. “They may be strangers to me only an hour ago, sir,” he said. “But I’ll not see them treated with rudeness.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Sir Bennet. I would ask you to remain silent,” the soldier replied.

“Do you dare speak to a knight of Arthur that way, sir?”

“Can it be possible,” the soldier said, completely ignoring Sir Bennet, “this idiot here is a warrior disguised? With no weapon about him, it makes little difference. Mine’s a blade sharp enough whichever he may be.” The grey-haired soldier addressed Lydia. “Girl, step forward to me.”

“She speaks only the Saxon tongue, sir, and a shy girl too,” Elizabeth said desperately, knowing that Lydia would understand her every word.

“She needn’t speak at all. I only need to see her arm and we’ll know if she’s the one left the village with the warrior. Girl, a step closer to me.”

Lydia stayed rooted to the spot. The soldier reached out with his free hand. A short tussle ensued as Lydia tried to fight him off, but the sleeve was soon dragged up, and anyone with eyes could see a swollen patch of skin encircled by tiny dots of dried blood.

Sir Bennet now leaned forward to see better, but the soldier himself, reluctant to take his gaze off Darcy, did not glance at the wound for some time. When finally he did so, he was obliged to make a swift turn of his head, and at that very moment, Elizabeth heard a piercing piercing, high-pitched noise - not a scream exactly, but something that reminded her of a forlorn fox.

The soldier was for an instant distracted by it, and Lydia seized the chance to break from his grasp and ran into Elizabeth’s arms. Only then did Elizabeth realise the noise was coming from Darcy; and that in response, his horse, until then languidly munching the ground, had suddenly turned and was charging straight for them.

The soldier’s own horse had made a panicked motion behind him, causing him further confusion, and by the time he had recovered, Darcy had gone clear of the sword’s reach.

The horse kept coming at daunting speed, and Darcy, feinting one way, then moving the other, produced another shrill call. The horse slowed to a canter, bringing herself between Darcy and his opponent, enabling Darcy, in an almost leisurely manner, to take up a position several strides from the oak. The horse turned again, moving smartly in pursuit of her master.

Elizabeth saw him reach towards the saddle just before the horse momentarily obscured Darcy from view. But then the horse cantered on riderless towards the spot where so recently she had been enjoying the grass.

Darcy had remained standing quite still, but now with a sword in his hand.

A small exclamation escaped Elizabeth.

Sir Bennet made a grunting noise, which Elizabeth did not understand. Her father had placed a foot up on one of the raised roots of the oak, and was watching with keen interest, a hand on his knee.

The grey-haired soldier’s back was now turned to them; in this, of course, he had had little choice, for he had now to face Darcy.

Elizabeth was surprised to see that this soldier, so controlled and expert only a moment ago, had become quite disorientated. He raised his sword, the tip just above the level of his shoulder, gripping tightly with both hands. This posture, Elizabeth thought, was premature, and would only exhaust the arm muscles. Darcy, in contrast, looked calm, almost nonchalant, just as he had done when she had first glimpsed him setting off out of the village to rescue Lydia.

Darcy came slowly towards the soldier, stopping a few steps before him, sword held low in just one hand.

“Sir Bennet,” the soldier said, a new note in his voice, “I hear you move at my back. Do you stand with me against this foe?”

“I stand here to protect these girls, sir. Otherwise, this dispute is not my concern, as you so lately reported. This warrior may be your foe, but he isn’t yet mine.”

“This fellow’s a Saxon warrior, Sir Bennet, and here to do us mischief. Help me face him, for though I’m keen to do my duty, if this is the man we seek he’s a fearful fellow by all accounts.”

“What reason have I to take arms against a man simply for being a stranger? It’s you, sir, came into this tranquil place with your rude manners.”

There was silence for a while. Then the soldier said to Darcy, “Do you stay mute, sir? Or will you reveal yourself now we face one another!”

“I’m Fitzwilliam Darcy, sir, a warrior from the east visiting this country. It seems your Lord Brennus would have me hurt, though for what reason I know not since I travel in peace on an errand for my King. And it’s my belief you mean to harm that innocent girl, and seeing this I must now frustrate you.”

“Sir Bennet,” the soldier cried, “will you come to the aid of a fellow Briton, I ask you once again. If this is Darcy, it’s said more than fifty Norsemen have fallen by his hand alone. And that girl he seeks to protect is infected by an ogre, and will poison us all unless her life is ended.”

Sir Bennet harrumphed. “If fifty fierce Vikings fell to him, what difference can one old and weary knight make to the outcome now, sir?”

“I beg you, do not jest, Sir Bennet. This is a wild fellow, and he’ll strike at any moment. I see it in his eye. He’s here to do us all mischief, I tell you.”

“Name the mischief I bring,” Darcy said, “travelling peacefully through your country, a single sword in my pack to defend against wild creatures and bandits. If you can name my crime, do so now, for I’d hear the charge before I strike you.”

“I’m ignorant of the nature of your mischief, sir, but have faith enough in Lord Brennus’ desire to be free of you.”

“No charge to name, then, yet you hurry here to slay me.”

“Sir Bennet, I beg you help me! Fierce as he is, the two of us with careful strategy might overcome him.”

“Sir, let me remind you, I’m a knight of Arthur, no foot soldier of your Lord Brennus. I don’t take up arms against strangers on rumour or for their foreign blood. And it seems to me you’re unable to give good cause for taking against him.”

“You force me to speak then, sir, though these are confidences to which a man of my humble rank has no right, even if Lord Brennus himself let me hear them. This man is come to this country on a mission to slay the dragon Querig. This is what brings him here!”

“Slay Querig?” Sir Bennet sounded genuinely dumbfounded.

Elizabeth recalled Darcy’s fierce speech about the dragon before they had left the village. She stared in shock.

Sir Bennet strode forward from the tree and stared at Darcy as if seeing him for the first time. “Is this true, sir?”

“I’ve no wish to lie to a knight of Arthur, so let me declare it. Further to my duty reported earlier, I’ve been charged by my King to slay the she-dragon that roams this country. But what objection could there be to such a task? A fierce dragon bringing danger to all alike. Tell me, soldier, why is it such a mission makes me your enemy?”

“Slay Querig?! You really mean to slay Querig?!” Sir Bennet was now shouting. “But sir, this is a mission entrusted to _me!_ Do you not know this? A mission entrusted to me by Arthur himself!”

 _“What?”_ Elizabeth heard herself cry out in surprise.

“A dispute for some other time, Sir Bennet,” Darcy replied calmly. “Let me first attend to this soldier who would make an enemy of me and this girl when we would go by in peace.”

“This girl will ravage entire villages if not killed! Sir Bennet, if you’ll not come to my aid, I fear this is my final hour! I implore you, sir, remember the affection Lord Brennus has for Arthur and his memory and take arms against this Saxon!”

“It is _my_ duty to slay Querig, Master Darcy! Horace and I have laid careful plans to lure her out and we seek no assistance!”

“Lay down your sword, sir,” Darcy said to the soldier, “and I may spare you yet. Otherwise your life ends on this ground.”

The soldier hesitated, but then said, “I see now I was foolish to suppose myself strong enough to take you alone, sir. I may be punished yet for my vanity. But I won’t now lay down my sword like a coward.”

Sir Bennet was entirely unable to focus on what has happening. “By what right,” he cried, “does your king order you to come from another country and usurp the duties given to a knight of Arthur?”

“Forgive me, Sir Bennet, but it’s many a year you’ve had to slay Querig, and young maidens have become grown women in the time. If I can do this country a service and rid it of this scourge, why be angry?”

“Why be angry, sir? You know not what you’re about! You think it an easy matter to slay Querig? She’s as wise as she’s fierce! You’ll only anger her with your foolishness, and this whole country will need suffer her wrath, where we’ve hardly heard a thing of her these past several years. It requires the most delicate handling, sir, or a calamity will befall the innocent right across this country! Why do you suppose Horace and I have so bided our time? One misstep will have grave consequences, sir!”

“Then help me, Sir Bennet,” the soldier shouted, now making no effort to hide his fear. “Let’s together put out this menace!”

Sir Bennet looked at the soldier with a puzzled air, as if he had forgotten for the moment who he was. Then he said in a calmer voice, “I’ll not aid you, sir. I’m no friend of your master, for I fear his dark motives. I fear too the harm you intend to the girl here, who you have stated should be killed.”

“Fight now, soldier,” Darcy said, his tone almost conciliatory. “Fight and be done with it.”

“Darcy, will it do harm,” Elizabeth said suddenly, “to let this soldier surrender his sword and ride away? He spoke kindly to me before on the bridge and he’s perhaps not a bad man.”

“If I do as you ask, Miss Elizabeth, he’ll take news back of us and surely return before long with thirty or more soldiers. There’ll be little mercy shown then. And mark you, he means sinister harm to Lydia. The only one of us left standing alive would be yourself, and perhaps Sir Bennet.”

Elizabeth pressed on, trying to broker a peace. “Perhaps he would willingly swear an oath not to betray us or kill Lydia.”

“Your kindness touches me, Miss,” the grey-haired soldier intervened, never taking his eyes off Darcy. “But I’m no scoundrel and won’t take rude advantage of it. What the Saxon says is true. Spare me and I’ll do just as he says, for duty allows me no other course. Yet I thank you for your gentle words, and if these are to be my last moments, then I’ll leave this world a little more peacefully for them.”

“Perhaps you will share with us your name,” Darcy said. “You are a brave and noble soldier, and I have a duty to give you an honourable burial.”

The soldier spoke after a short pause. “Steffa Ivor.”

Elizabeth could hear the grey-haired soldier’s breathing, more audible now because the man was releasing a low growl with each breath. When he charged forward he did so with his sword high above his head in what seemed an unsophisticated, even suicidal attack; but just before he reached Darcy, he abruptly altered his trajectory, and feinted to his left, his sword lowered to his hip. The grey-haired soldier, Elizabeth understood with a twinge of pity, knowing he stood little chance should the combat mature, had wagered everything on this one desperate ploy. But Darcy had anticipated it, or perhaps it was that his instincts were enough. The Saxon side-stepped neatly, and drew his own sword across the oncoming man in a single simple movement. The soldier let out a swooshing sound; he then fell forward onto the ground.

Elizabeth started muttering a prayer, and she realised that Darcy was doing the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say, some chapters like this one, contains very little of my own handiwork, and much from the original story. I have changed the plot here and there to serve my own nefarious purposes, but all the great stuff is from Kazuo Ishiguro's original.


	9. Yellow Flowers

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Lydia said in a flat tone.

“He was an honourable soldier, doing his duty. It could just as easily have been me,” Darcy replied softly.

Lydia was staring at the fallen man, her expression the same.

“Come away, Lydia,” Elizabeth said, leading her elsewhere. “It’s done, and it’s as well. This man meant us harm, though the reason’s still not clear.”

Darcy had been cleaning his sword on the ground, but now rose and came towards them. “It’s true my Saxon kin in this country live in good harmony with your people. But we’ve reports at home of Lord Brennus’ ambitions to conquer this land for himself and make war on all Saxons now living on it.”

“I don’t understand,” Elizabeth said. She noticed that her father was peculiarly silent. “Why would this Lord Brennus risk the great peace won by Arthur…that is, when you spoke earlier, it sounded as if much bloodshed occurred before peace, not that I have much recollection of any of it.”

“That Brennus entertains in his castle a dangerous guest,” Darcy commented, and Elizabeth saw him glance at her ever-silent father. “A Norseman said to possess the wisdom to tame dragons. It’s my King’s fear Lord Brennus means to capture Querig to fight in the ranks of his army. This she-dragon would make a fierce soldier indeed, and Brennus would then rightly harbour ambition. It’s for this I’m sent to destroy the dragon before her savagery becomes evern worse than it is now, turning on all who oppose Lord Brennus.”

Sir Bennet finally spoke. “Querig is too wild to be tamed by any man.” Her grabbed his horse Horace by the reins, and walked over to Darcy. “It’s a great sadness this tranquil spot, surely a gift from God to all weary travellers, is now polluted by blood. You should bury this man quickly, before anyone else comes this way, and I’ll take his horse to Lord Brennus’ camp, together with news of how I came upon him attacked by bandits, and where his friends may find his grave.”

“You’re _leaving?!?_ ” Elizabeth asked, shocked. Even Lydia turned in surprise, and Darcy looked almost contemptuously at Sir Bennet.

“Well, someone has to cover this up and prevent further damage,” Sir Bennet replied.

Elizabeth started. “But what about us? The monastery? We can all help Darcy bury this man, and you can take us to the monastery. Wouldn’t _that_ be the best way to prevent further damage?”

Sir Bennet walked over to them and put his arms around Elizabeth and Lydia. “Unfortunately, girls, that is not possible given this situation. You will have to wait here until the burial is done, and then Darcy will take you to the monastery, where you will all await my return. I must to Lord Brennus’ camp, and give an explanation of what happened here to avoid further trouble.”

He hugged both of them, but Elizabeth was too shocked to take in her father’s goodbye. Darcy stood near the body, his eyes as cold as stones. 

Sir Bennet, once his goodbyes were done, turned to Darcy. “Meanwhile, sir, I urge you return straight away east. Think no more of Querig, for you can be assured Horace and I, hearing all we have today, will redouble our efforts to slay her. Now, put this man in the earth that he may return to his maker peacefully, and think no more of slaying dragons.”

“I fear, Sir Bennet, Lord Brennus will not believe such a story,” was the only response Darcy made.

“He’ll believe it well enough,” Sir Bennet replied. “There’s a coolness between us, but he has me for an honest fool without the wit to invent devious tales. I may tell them how the soldier spoke of bandits even as he bled to death in my arms. Some will think it a grave sin to tell such a lie, yet I know God will look mercifully on it, for isn’t it to stop further bloodshed? I’ll make Brennus believe me, sir. Even so, you remain in danger and have good reason to hurry home.”

“I’ll do so without delay, as soon as my errand here’s finished,” Darcy said coldly.

“Speed is crucial, so be on your way and never mind your errand. Horace and I will see to the she-dragon, so you’ve no cause to think further of her. In any case, now I’ve had time to dwell on it, I see Lord Brennus can never succeed in recruiting Querig into his army. She’s the most wild and untameable of creatures and will as quickly spew fire on her own ranks as on Brennus’s foes. The whole idea’s outlandish, sir. Think no more of it and hurry home before your enemies corner you.”

Elizabeth thought she saw intense hostility on her father’s features.

Darcy did not bother responding, but started poking his sword into the ground, and Elizabeth realised that he was looking for softer soil to start digging the grave.

Sir Bennet was insistent. “Do I have your word on it, Master Darcy?”

“On what?”

“That you’ll think no more of the she-dragon and hurry home.”

“You seem keen to hear me say so.”

“I think not just of your safety, sir, but of those on whom Querig will turn should you arouse her. And what of my daughters, who travel with you?”

At this, Darcy scoffed openly. “It’s true, the safety of _your_ daughters has become _my_ responsibility. I shall go beside them as far as the monastery, for I can hardly leave them defenceless on these wild roads. Thereafter, it may be best we part.”

“So after the monastery, you’ll make your way home.”

“I’ll set off home when I’m well and ready, sir knight.”

* * *

Darcy had asked Elizabeth and Lydia to keep watch on the road, as he dug a grave for the soldier. Elizabeth saw that Darcy was using the dead man’s sword to dig the grave, remarking that he was reluctant to blunt his own on such a task.

Elizabeth had offered to help, but Darcy had absolutely refused, stating that they still had a long way to go and that she needed to conserve her strength. She wondered at the meaning of this, because the monastery could not be more than two or three hours from their location, even though night was falling. Nevertheless, she complied with his request.

Lydia had climbed a small elm tree nearby to get a view from the road from afar. It was odd, Elizabeth thought to herself. Lydia had never been an active sort, and now, she was almost animal-like, clambering up the tree.

Elizabeth stood nearby below, watching the road from the opposite direction. From her position, Elizabeth turned back to look at Darcy. The warrior was now waist deep in the ground, and perspiration had drenched his forehead. Elizabeth was upset by all that had happened. She understood rationally that had the soldier lived, he would have orchestrated death for Darcy as well as Lydia. But she also felt a sadness for the slain man. She remembered the soldier’s courtesy towards them on the little bridge.

She suddenly looked back to Darcy, dug up earth all around him. Something in the way he looked tugged on her memory, and now with the stillness in the air, Elizabeth remembered a blue sky, and a flock of sheep coming through the heather.

“It can’t be rosemary, sir,” she remembered saying, rolling her eyes and her tone wry.

Darcy had been crouching down in front of her, one knee pressed into the ground, for it had been a fine day and the soil dry. She could remember his shadow on the forest floor before her, as she parted the undergrowth with her hands. His hair was longer, face younger and full of brightness, but still holding the same commanding demeanour that he did even today.

“It can’t be rosemary, sir. Who ever saw rosemary with such yellow flowers on it?”

“Then I have its name wrong,” Darcy had said. “But I know for certain it’s one commonly seen, and not one to bring you mischief.”

“But are you really one who knows his plants, sir? My mother taught me everything grows wild in this country, yet what’s before us now is strange to me.”

“Then it’s likely something foreign to these parts lately arrived. Why distress yourself so, maiden?”

“I distress myself, sir, because it’s likely this is a weed I’m brought up to fear. You ask silly questions.”

“Why fear a weed except that it’s poisonous, and then all’s needed is not to touch it. Yet there you were, reaching down with your hands, and now getting me to do the same!”

“Oh, it’s not poisonous, sir! At least not in the way you mean. Yet my mother once described closely a plant and warned that to see it in the heather was bad luck for any young girl.”

“What sort of bad luck, maiden?”

“I’m not bold enough to tell you, sir.”

But even as she had said this, Elizabeth remembered crouching down beside Darcy so that their elbows touched for a brief moment, and smiling into his gaze.

Elizabeth could remember now the feel of the wind in the branches above, and the presence of Darcy beside her. Could that have been the first time they had conversed? Surely they had at least known one another by sight; surely it was inconceivable she would have been so trusting of a total stranger.

“If it’s such bad luck to see it,” Darcy had said, “what kindness is it to bring me from the road just to place my gaze on it? Recall that you summoned me here to help with your lost bucket.”

“Oh, it’s not bad luck for you! Only for unmarried girls. There’s another plant entirely brings bad luck to men like yourself.”

“You’d better tell me what this other looks like, so I may dread it as you do this one.”

“You may enjoy mocking me, sir. Yet one day you’ll take a tumble and find the weed next to your nose. You’ll see then if it’s funny or not.”

And now Elizabeth heard the deep laughter she had kept hearing in her Visions. Darcy had laughed at her, deeply, openly, such a beautiful sound that she joined in despite herself.

“You are truly evil sir, making me laugh at myself,” she had said.

“My most sincere apologies, maiden,” Darcy had said, still laughing. “How can I make up for my ill-manners? I am at your service.”

“What would a soldier like you know about serving a humble farm girl like me?” she had replied teasingly, and the memory of the joy she had felt at the time washed over Elizabeth in waves.

“Princess, I certainly think I know as much as farming as you know about flowers,” Darcy had said. “Besides which, I was raised a farmer as well as a soldier.”

“Princess?” she had asked questioningly.

“The way you have been commanding me about, how can you be anything but a princess, and I your humble servant?”

Some loud noise brought Elizabeth back to the present time. Lydia was screeching something, and Darcy was making his way towards them in a hurry. Elizabeth realised then that she had seated herself on the ground, in shock of her own memory.

It dawned on Elizabeth that her Visions were no visions at all…they were memories from her past. A past in which she had known Darcy, met him, teased him, laughed at him…and fallen in love with him. She did not have all her memories with her yet, but Elizabeth just _knew_ it.

However, she was not able to dwell on this, as she realised that Lydia’s screeching had nothing to do with her own collapse.

“Are you all right?” Darcy asked her briefly, and she nodded.

“Lydia, what is it?”

“He’s coming up the road! Look! It’s Wickham!”


	10. Wickham Shares A Secret

“How do you know that man?” Darcy’s voice, low and hissing, was pure rage in that moment.

Elizabeth stumbled in her answer. “He was a traveller that my sisters and I ran into in the Great Plain. He promised me the secrets of my memories, and Lydia had snuck out to meet him when you…when she was attacked by the ogres.”

Darcy nodded. He ordered Lydia down from the elm tree, and made all of them walk back to the oak, where Sir Bennet had lately been lolling about.

“The stench will be bad, but it will only be for a short while. I reckon that Lydia will be unable to keep herself from calling Wickham over.”

Indeed, as the clearing came more into view from the road, Lydia started hollering to Wickham. Elizabeth noted that Darcy kept a strong hold on her sister, preventing Lydia from rushing to greet Wickham, though Darcy himself remained hidden, crouched partially behind Lydia and partially behind the oak.

It took Wickham some time to reach the path leading off from the main road. He must have undoubtedly heard Lydia, as he quickened his pace to the large circular area near the oak.

“Well, look who it! Fancy running into you ladies here,” Wickham said with a broad smile. “What on earth is it that brings you here?” As Wickham stepped closer, his nose wrinkled up to the stench of the death body, entrails now spilling out.

“One could ask you the same thing,” Darcy said as he suddenly sprung up. “Hands up where I can see them, and no sudden moves. On to your knees, Wickham.”

All colour drained from Wickham’s face, but he did as instructed.

“How do _you_ know him?” Elizabeth asked, to receive silence as a response. Meanwhile, Lydia was writhing in Darcy’s grasp, desperate to get away.

“Let. Me. _Go._ ”

“In good time,” Darcy said. “The more you struggle, the more it will hurt.” That helped Lydia reduce her squirming.

“Are you going to kill me?” Wickham asked.

Lydia gasped. _“You’re going to kill him?!?”_

Darcy stared at Wickham, hate and fury emanating from him in waves. Elizabeth truly feared that they would soon be digging two graves. “Hasn’t there been enough blood spilt for a day?” she asked.

Darcy remained silent.

“Well, if death isn’t on your mind…” Wickham said, as he started to stand. However, Darcy’s free hand was pointing his sword at Wickham in no time, making Wickham ease back down on to his knees. “Darcy, we’re both unwanted Saxons in dangerous Briton territory. What say you that we call a truce?”

“How do you know him?” Elizabeth repeated, louder this time.

Darcy seemed to struggle with her question. “We were raised in the same home.”

“Practically brothers,” Wickham added unhelpfully.

“Brothers don’t rob each other,” Darcy ground out.

“He stole from you?” Elizabeth asked in surprise, and this time Darcy at least nodded in response.

“I needed to make my way in the world!” Wickham protested.

“You have only yourself to blame; it was your drinking that got you thrown out of the army. And then you stole from my family, the people who cared for you since your birth.”

“You could afford to lose some wealth. And Georgiana will get over it…she will become an adult and realise that these unfortunate things happen to everyone.”

“Georgiana is dead,” Darcy said flatly.

“Who’s Georgiana? Lydia asked. At the same time, genuine horror crossed Wickham’s face as his steady knees buckled.

“Darcy, are you alright?” Elizabeth asked.

“Georgiana was my younger sister. The most innocent, pure soul you could ever imagine. This man here convinced her that they were in love so that he could steal some family heirlooms, no doubt to sell them in lands where they would not be known or recognised. After he was long gone, unable to bear neither her shame nor her broken heart, my sister took her own life.”

Elizabeth could not begin to imagine the horror of losing Jane. She reached out to touch Darcy’s shoulder. “I am so very sorry to hear this. No one should have to bury a beloved sibling like that.”

“Darcy…you _must_ know…I had never intended for Georgiana to come to harm…”

“ _Be quiet._ I would have killed you already, if not for Miss Elizabeth's plea, and may do so yet. Be grateful that this noble soldier has already sacrificed his life today, and I’ve no mood to take a life as unworthy as yours so soon thereafter. Does that sack there carry the stolen goods?”

Wickham gulped and then nodded. “I’ve already sold some items.”

Darcy snorted in disgust. “You will leave those here when I am done with you.”

Wickham nodded once more, this time eagerly.

“Get up. You will finish digging this grave, and help me bury this man.”

“He is one of Lord Brennus’ men,” Wickham stated, as he stood and got a better look at the man. “I needn’t tell you what danger you are in now, having killed one of his men.”

“I don’t need you to teach me about my circumstances,” Darcy retorted. “Dig.”

“We will be at the monastery soon,” Elizabeth said, “where my father will protect us. It is only a matter of a few hours before we are safe.”

Wickham looked at Darcy in surprise.

 _“Dig.”_ Darcy motioned to the fallen soldier’s sword. “Their father is Sir Bennet.”

Wickham raised an eyebrow. He picked up the sword, and looked at the half-dug grave. “Well, where _is_ Sir Bennet?”

“He went off to spin a tale about this soldier’s death to Lord Brennus. What are your plans, Wickham, if I choose to spare your life?”

“I was on my way to the village by the river. I heard that they have some Saxon elders…I was hoping that they would find some work for me to do. I have no certain plans. I also…as you know, this is Querig country. I had hoped to gather some information to help convince our King to pardon me.”

Darcy turned to Elizabeth. “We will not be going to the monastery; I fear that it will be too dangerous. We will hike north of here, closer to the river, and make camp for the night. We will head to the monastery tomorrow. You, Wickham, will assist us with the grave, the camp, and anything else we may need tonight. Depending on your performance, you may yet live to see another worthless day.”

Wickham, who had started digging, paused to quiz Darcy. “Why are you saddled with these women?”

Darcy, ignoring Wickham, nodded to Elizabeth and Lydia. “I will keep a watch on him, if you can resume your positions by the road, though darkness has almost fallen and I do not foresee anymore unwanted visitors.”

Darcy finally released his hold on Lydia, who promptly ran in the opposite direction of the road; namely into Wickham’s arms. “Oh, Wickham, you have no idea what adventures I have had!”

Elizabeth watched in tired amusement as Lydia hurtled herself at Wickham; he barely had time to toss aside the sword he was digging with and grab Lydia by her arms before she toppled them both to the ground.

Suddenly, Wickham recoiled in horror from Lydia, holding her arms. He stared at her wound, before pushing her as far away from himself as possible.

“Good grief, Darcy!!! What have you got yourself mixed up in!?! Get away from me, woman!!” Wickham shouted, as he finally pushed Lydia on to the ground.

“Calm down, Wickham, there is no need for hysterics,” Darcy said, oddly enough in a pacifying voice, and Elizabeth wondered at the change in attitude. Darcy moved closer to Wickham. “I have everything under control. Just finish the grave. There’s no need to panic.”

Lydia sat on the ground, tears pooling in her eyes. Elizabeth rushed to Lydia, pity overcoming her. Lydia’s lower lip trembled. “It’s just…it’s just…”

“It’s just an ogre’s bite,” Elizabeth supplied, hoping that it would ease Wickham’s hysteria. Surely, a man that was travelling alone through such dangerous terrain would not be put off by an ogre’s bite; besides, neither Darcy nor Bingley had acted like it was a big issue, being Saxons. “It will heal soon enough, and besides, the monk Jonus is known to have –”

“Ogre’s bit? _Ogre’s bite?”_ Wickham gave a crazed laugh.

“Wickham,” Darcy said warningly.

“They think it an ogre’s bite!!” Wickham had dropped the sword and had clearly lost all sense of digging. He was gesticulating wildly and looked both mad and frightened. Elizabeth felt afraid just looking at him, as if fear was contagious. Lydia covered her face in her hands and wept quietly.

Wickham continued to yell. “Good god man, do you not understand the danger you are in?!? You, me, and this entire country! Darcy, leave these women here and let’s you and I make a run for it while we have the chance! We can yet make it out alive if we try!”

“Wickham, I said – ”

Elizabeth spoke at the same time as Darcy. “What do you mean, _think_ it an ogre’s bite?”

“This is no ogre’s bite, you foolish woman!” Wickham screamed. “This is a _dragon_ bite!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it is short, but it was a perfect spot to end the chapter!


	11. Well Past The Point

_“My sister was bitten by a_ dragon _and you didn’t think it important to tell me?” It was phrased as a question, but Elizabeth was all but yelling._

 _Darcy had been affronted. “Excuse me Miss, but as I recall, you didn’t even know of the_ existence _of dragons until this morning. Dragon, ogre, or troll, the information would have made little difference to you.”_

 _“How can you be so arrogant? She is_ my _sister, not yours, and you should have been honest.”_

_That blow stung badly. "She is your sister, and yet, I have been the one protecting her for the last three days and counting. Given your family’s inability to rise to the occasion, we shall trust my judgment, including when and what information will be shared,” he said coldly._

_“You lied!”_

_“On the contrary, your village chose to believe that an ogre bit Lydia, and I did not correct them.”_

_Elizabeth had scoffed. “Of course, I forgot what pleasure you seem to derive from keeping the truth to yourself. I can’t believe I ever fell for a man like you.”_

_Darcy had frozen. “I beg your pardon?”_

_“We knew each other years past. Unfathomably, we were in love. You may have tried to hide it when we met, but I remember enough now. And you_ still _couldn’t be honest with me, if for no other reason, then at least in respect of our shared past.”_

 _He had laughed bitterly, using anger to mask his hurt. “You toy with me. You expect me to respect a past that you have no inkling of. You want me to risk my life – risk_ all _our lives – telling you secrets that are beyond your comprehension, and for what? For respect of a past that_ I _feel and_ you _use as a bargaining hold.”_

 _Elizabeth had bristled. “You think I am a little child who cannot understand? Well, perhaps I would understand as well as you if you treated me as an equal! And I_ do _have more than an inkling! I remember…I remember the little yellow flowers…and walking through a market wearing your green cloak…and…”_

 _“Remember?_ Remember? _Aye, indeed, you remember. You remember fragments of things that hold no meaning for you. You can remember everything, but what use is that when you_ feel _nothing? Perhaps you_ remember _that boatmen look for a bond of so love so strong that it shines out from your soul, not for the recitation of a story.”_

_“I…”_

_“Please, Miss Elizabeth, I’ve heard quite enough. This is about your anger at being helpless in the face of danger to your sister, your frustration with your father, and your inability to take charge. This not about you and I and any past we may have shared. A past you remember only smidgeons of, a past you_ feel _nothing of. Bigger the fool I, risking my life to bring you comfort. Tomorrow I deliver you to the monastery and then we part, and that cannot happen a moment too soon.”_

* * *

Darcy winced as he recalled the argument.

He was almost blind with exhaustion at this point. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had slept; after they had rescued Lydia, he and Charles and taken turns keeping watch, afraid that the villagers would do something catastrophic to Lydia during the night. Now with Wickham prowling about, Darcy knew that he could not risk sleep, even if Wickham seemed to have been shocked into silence.

Grave being dug, Darcy had made sure they hiked further north before securing a safe spot to camp for the night.

After the fight with Elizabeth, he had forced Wickham to walk with him to find firewood. He needed to get away, and could hardly leave Wickham alone with the women.

“What it did look like?”

Darcy looked at Wickham morosely.

“The _dragon,_ ” Wickham clarified, with an expression that said it should have been obvious.

“It was in infancy. A vicious little creature, something the size and shape of a cockerel, though with no beak or feathers. It attacked with teeth and claws, all the time letting out a shrill squawking. It had a tail, and that alone was as strong as a half-grown wolf. Maybe like a plucked chicken, though with the head of a serpent.”

Wickham nodded, awe-struck. “How did it attack Lydia? Did you see? Where did it come from?”

Darcy shook his head. “I have no idea. She was already injured when we found her. I suspect the ogres found the creature wandering away from its den and just took it.”

“Then Querig…”

“Querig is disturbed. Surely, you sense it,” Darcy said. He may not like Wickham, but couldn’t deny the advantage of Wickham’s cunning mind.

Wickham scratched his head in contemplation. “The slight recovering of memories in those around us…Querig is disturbed and so the mist is disturbed…Darcy, this bodes very ill.”

“Of course. It is a matter of time before she goes on the warpath, in search of her offspring, and then…”

“…and then she will kill everything and everyone she comes across,” Wickham completed. “Unless you kill her first.”

“Yes, unless that.”

“Darcy, I will help you. We can escape. We can make it out of here before it is too late!”

“Wickham,” he said tiredly. “Surely even you realise that it is well past that point? Querig is going to be turned on the people, through the search for her offspring or through Brennus. Saxons will not be spared either way. _Someone_ has to kill her, and kill her soon.”

Wickham paused to think. “That old fool Bennet must know?”

“I can’t see how he wouldn’t. He cannot be so addled as to not recognise the bite, which he clearly saw. He fought with Arthur.”

“And?”

“And, as you can well see, he took off to Brennus’ camp without a word. He either takes me for a fool, or my knowledge does not make him pause to wonder. Whichever it is, he also cares not one jot to protect his daughter. I do not trust him.” Of course, Darcy did not trust Wickham either, but at least he _knew_ why he couldn't trust Wickham.

“Did you kill the creature?”

“No, that would have unleashed Querig’s wrath like no other. The creature gets killed after we deal with Querig, not before.”

“Where is it? Why did you not bring it with you?”

“I can hardly travel with it, with no way to control or disguise it! Besides, it would attack Lydia again, or try to. Charles and I could not keep the two anywhere near. I remember those stink-filled ogres…they had fashioned a rickety cage wherein they carried it. Lydia must have gotten too close and been bit at least twice, I imagine. Maybe the ogres also had been bit, but they were too demented to realise it. The more I think, the more I think the ogres were contaminated somehow. They _must_ have been bit.”

“Where is it?” Wickham repeated.

“In the Great Plain. Charles and I reinforced the cage the best we could, and then further hid it. Under the guise of reinforcing the village, Charles was to put together a stronger, iron cage to put the current one within.”

 _“That’s_ why he isn’t here!”

“Yes. We cannot leave Lydia back there. We cannot have the creature travel with her. One of us has to ensure the creature remains imprisoned, and one of us has to deliver Lydia and slay Querig.”

Wickham raised his eyebrow. “Or die trying.”

Darcy remained silent.

“I have an idea.”

“Yes?”

“In exchange for a full pardon – I trust I will have your word of honour?”

Darcy knew that he should not make bargains with the devil, but he also knew that he was on extremely dangerous terrain with not a single ally. “If your plan works, you have my word.”

“Good enough for me,” Wickham said. “I will travel back and tell Bingley what has happened so far. He will come with the creature. The creature will give you the edge you need; Querig will be distracted.”

“That is too dangerous a plan; Querig will be unpredictable with the creature nearabouts. Also, we do not know where Querig is, and travelling with that creature along the countryside is a risk I will not take.”

“It takes an animal to find an animal.”

Darcy looked at Wickham, his mind briefly coming alive with a new idea. “The monastery is on top of the mountain. I will have the help I need once there to know which direction to travel to find Querig,” Darcy said. He looked at Wickham, waiting to see if the other man’s mind would have reached the same conclusion.

“The animal I can bring to you is a safer bet than the animal you have.”

“But a far more dangerous companion; no Wickham, there is no plan, and therefore no pardon. But on the bright side, I have determined to not kill you in the light of day.”

* * *

“He is so handsome, is he not?” Lydia said dreamily, staring at Wickham, who was turning over fish he had caught over a small fire.

Darcy rolled his eyes, but mustered enough self-control to not look at Elizabeth. He marvelled at how quickly Lydia had forgotten Wickham’s rejection of her. He almost admired it.

“This is what being in love must feel like…I am in love!” Lydia moaned dramatically, and this time Darcy scoffed openly. As if this girl knew _anything_ about love, he thought. She was nothing but a wayward child who knew nothing of the world.

“You laugh at me,” Lydia said accusingly. “Maybe that’s because you’re just a lonely man who’s never been in love and will always be alone.”

“Hush, Lydia, that’s enough,” Elizabeth said quietly.

“We’re all alone,” Darcy said, looking at Lydia, but truly speaking to Elizabeth. “If not now, then later. We’re all born alone and will die alone. Love is like a wind; it’ll blow past you violently making you think you’ve been lifted up by it, but eventually it’s going to fade away elsewhere, leaving you just as you were…alone.”

“That’s not true!”

“It’s joy and fun and love and excitement first, like when a fair travels through your village, but then one day it’s all gone, and all that’s left is sadness. Everything ends, Lydia, sooner or later. Birds sing, flowers bloom, and then they too die. This is what living is. Everyone believes themselves to be in love at some point. And when that love you believed in leaves, when the heartbeat fades, all that’s left is heartache and loneliness. Always.”

Darcy could feel Elizabeth’s eyes bore into him, but he ignored her. Nothing he said was untrue. He had been young and stupid to believe that their love would move beyond all fronts, like magic. He should have realised, instead, that love was like a star, shinning bright but dying with the dawn. Remembering love was without meaning in the absence of feeling it. All this time, he had foolishly been bitter that Elizabeth could not remember. Real pain was to hear her speak of their past, with none of the feelings that should have been there.


	12. Mary

For all her tiredness, Elizabeth could only imagine how Darcy was feeling. When she had awoke, Darcy was already up, and she suspected that he in fact had not slept at all. Wickham, after roasting some more fish, left before Lydia was up. Darcy had said nothing at all to her; he made it impossible for them to exchange words as he walked off with Wickham and did not make his presence known again until Lydia was fully awake.

With as few words as language would allow, Darcy had let it be known it was time to leave, and their silent journey began once more.

Elizabeth desperately wanted to speak to Darcy, but held back. Not only did Darcy make it very clear in his manner that he preferred silence, she also had no idea what she would say.

She was still upset with Darcy for having kept her in the dark.

Darcy was undoubtedly arrogant; so self-assured and certain in his own views and opinions that it had been infuriating to find out that Lydia had been bitten by a _dragon_ , and Darcy had hidden that from her.

But Elizabeth regretted her outburst. She had been tired and upset and had taken it out on Darcy. Her comment about Lydia not being his sister was unconscionable, not only because she knew that his own sister had taken her own life, but also because Darcy was risking his hourly to protect Lydia.

Elizabeth also had enough self-awareness to know that Darcy had been right in that she had taken out much of her frustrations on him. She felt utterly helpless in the face of real danger. Her father, after what could only have been an extended absence had found them, only to immediately abandon them. Darcy's comment to her father about how it had fallen on him to protect Sir Bennet’s daughters had not been lost on Elizabeth. While she could not understand her father’s departure, it had shamed and upset her.

It also scared Elizabeth, how well Darcy could see into her. She was just beginning to regain her memories of him, and he, he knew her better than she knew herself! She who, for as long as she recalled had been stumbling about in the dark, now had met someone who knew everything about her, and knew her own feelings as well as she did.

Darcy had accused her of not feeling. He was wrong. It was not that she didn’t feel. It was that she was awash in fear.

Fear of memories, fear of forgetting again, and above all, fear of feelings that she wasn’t able to quite understand and rationalise.

* * *

With the afternoon sun filling the chamber, Elizabeth looked out of the window to see what appeared to be the entire community - more than forty monks - waiting in clusters all around the courtyard. There was a furtive mood among them, as if they were keen their words were not overheard even by those in their own ranks, and Elizabeth could see hostile glances exchanged. Their habits were all of the same brown cloth, sometimes missing a hood or a sleeve. They seemed anxious to go into the large stone building opposite, but there had been a delay and their impatience was palpable.

When her party had finally arrived at the monastery, Elizabeth had been crushed to find out that her father had not returned. The monk that had welcomed them had something about Sir Bennet being expected at any moment, but he seemed furtive and Elizabeth did not trust those words.

Though he still had not spoken above five words to her, Elizabeth had almost fallen at Darcy’s feet in relief when the warrior had muttered something about not leaving them just yet.

If Darcy had any inkling at how much a feeling of safety and security that his mere presence brought to Elizabeth, he would have laughed at the foolishness of their previous fight; however, as it was, Elizabeth was too scared and confused to tell him anything.

Elizabeth had been gazing down on the courtyard for several moments when a noise made her lean further out of the window and look directly beneath. She had seen then the outer wall of the building, its pale stone revealing yellow hues in the sun, and the staircase cut into it rising from the ground towards her. Midway up these stairs Elizabeth could see the top of the head of a monk, holding a tray laden with food and a jug of milk. The man was pausing to rebalance the tray, and Elizabeth watched the manoeuvre with alarm, knowing how these steps were worn unevenly, and that with no rail on the outside, one had always to keep pressed to the wall to be sure not to plunge down onto the hard cobbles. On top of it all, the monk now ascending appeared to have a limp, yet he kept coming, slowly and steadily.

Elizabeth went to the door to relieve the man of the tray, but the monk - Father Brian, as they were soon to learn he was called - insisted on carrying it to the table himself, saying “You are our guests, so let me serve you as such.”

Darcy was nowhere to be found, and Elizabeth thought that perhaps the sound of woodcutting that was ringing through the air was attributable to him. So, she and Lydia sat down at the wooden table and devoured gratefully the bread, fruit and milk. Much to Lydia’s consternation, Elizabeth insisted wrapping a portion of the food aside for Darcy.

As they ate, Father Brian had chatted happily, sometimes dreamily, about past visitors, the fish to be caught in nearby streams, a stray dog that had lived with them until its death the previous winter. Sometimes Father Brian, an elderly but sprightly man, got up from the table and shuffled about the room dragging about his bad leg, talking all the while, every now and then going to the window to check on his colleagues below.

Meanwhile, above their heads, there were birds who had been criss-crossing the underside of the roof, their feathers occasionally drifting down to blemish the surface of the milk. Elizabeth found them scary and creepy, and she heard a low, guttural growl from Lydia when the sounds of the birds became too strong.

Elizabeth had been tempted to chase off these birds, but had refrained in case the monks regarded them with affection. She was taken aback then when rapid footsteps came up the stairs outside, and a large monk with a dark beard and a flushed face burst into the room.

“Demons! Demons!” he shouted, glaring up at the rafters. “I’ll see them soak in blood!”

The newcomer was carrying a straw bag, and he now reached into it, brought out a stone and hurled it up at the birds. “Demons! Foul demons, demons, demons!”

As the first stone ricocheted down to the ground, he threw a second and then a third. The stones were landing away from the table, but Lydia instinctively covered her head with her hands, crouching under the table defensively. Elizabeth stood up, but then paused, unsure of what she should do as to not give offense.

Father Brian reached the monk, and clutching both the man’s arms, said “Brother Irasmus, I beg you! Stop this and calm yourself!”

The birds by now were screeching and flying in all directions, and the bearded monk shouted over the commotion, “I know them! I know them!”

“Calm yourself, brother!”

“Don’t you stop me, father! They’re agents of the devil!”

“They may yet be agents of God, Irasmus. We don’t yet know.”

“I know them to be of the devil! Look at their eyes! How can they be of God and gaze at us with such eyes?”

“Irasmus, calm yourself. We have guests present.”

At these words, the bearded monk became aware of Elizabeth. Whether he could see Lydia crouching under the table was uncertain.

He stared angrily at Elizabeth, then said to Father Brian “Why bring guests into the house at a time like this? Why do they come here?”

“They’re Sir Bennet’s children, brother, and we’re happy to give them hospitality as is ever our custom.”

“Father Brian, you’re a fool to tell strangers of our affairs! Look, they spy on us!”

“They spy on no one, nor do they have any interest in our problems, having plenty of their own, I don’t doubt.”

Suddenly the bearded man drew out another stone and prepared to hurl it, but Father Brian managed to prevent him. “Go back down, Irasmus, and let go this bag. Here, leave it with me. It won’t do, carrying it everywhere the way you do.”

The bearded man shook off the older monk, and clutched his sack jealously to his chest. Father Brian, allowing Irasmus this small victory, ushered him to the doorway, and even as the latter turned to glare again at the roof, pushed him gently out onto the stairway.

“Go back down, Irasmus. They miss you down there. Go back down and take care you don’t fall.”

When the man had finally gone, Father Brian came back into the room, waving his hand at the feathers floating in the air. “My apologies to you both. He’s a good man, but this way of life no longer suits him. Please be seated again and finish your meal in peace.”

“And yet, father,” Elizabeth said, “that fellow may be right when he says we intrude on you at an uneasy time. We’ve no desire to increase your burdens here. As I had said earlier, in the absence of my father, if you’ll only let us quickly consult Father Jonus, whose wisdom’s well known, perhaps the other monks such as Father Irasmus would feel calmer. Is there word yet if we might see him?”

Father Brian shook his head. “It’s as I told you earlier, Miss. Jonus has been unwell, and the abbot’s given strict orders no one will disturb him other than with permission given by the abbot himself. Knowing of your desire to meet with Jonus, you being Sir Bennet’s children, and the pains you took to come here, I’ve been trying since your arrival to attract the abbot’s ear. Yet as you see, you come at a busy time, and now there’s a visitor of some importance arrived for the abbot, delaying our conference further. The abbot’s even now gone back to his study to talk with the visitor while the rest of us wait for him.”

Lydia had crawled out from underneath the table to go stand at the window to watch the bearded monk’s departure down the stone steps, and she now pointed, saying “Isn’t that the abbot returning now?”

Elizabeth went to Lydia’s side, saw a gaunt figure striding with authority into the centre of the courtyard. The monks, breaking from their conversations, were all moving towards him.

“Ah yes, there’s the abbot returned. Now finish your meal in peace. And regarding Jonus, be patient, for I fear I’ll not be able to bring you the abbot’s decision till after this conference is over. Yet I’ll not forget, I promise, and will petition well for you.”

* * *

Elizabeth tried to extracted a promise from Lydia to stay in the room, to no avail. Recalling then how Darcy always calmed Lydia with his horse, Elizabeth undertook the same. She walked Lydia to the stables, and this time had little problem in obtaining her sister’s word to not leave the side of Darcy’s horse.

Elizabeth saw the monks filing into the building opposite, as she went in search of Darcy. She found him in the woodshed.

“That seems like more than sufficient wood,” Elizabeth noted, as she offered Darcy the parcel of food. "You have been at this endeavour for some time."

Darcy took the food gratefully, and silently looked about before speaking. Elizabeth wondered if he was merely seeing if anyone else could hear them, or if he was making a decision as to trust her with crucial information.

Darcy moved to the high monastery wall overlooking the surrounding forest, and Elizabeth followed him.

“The woodshed is well positioned,” Darcy finally explained. “I am able to keep good watch on the comings and goings while I work. Even better, when I delivered the wood where it was needed, I roamed at will to inspect the surroundings, even if a few doors stayed barred to me.”

The monks had long gone into their meeting by then, and a hush had fallen over the grounds. Darcy was looking down on the dense foliage below.

“But why go to such trouble, Darcy?” Elizabeth asked. “Can it be you’re suspicious of these good monks here?”

“When we were climbing that path earlier, I wanted nothing but to curl in a corner adrift in my dreams. Yet now we’re here, I can’t keep away the feeling this place holds dangers.”

“It must be weariness that makes your suspicions keen. I do not believe that you have slept at all. What can trouble you here, amongst these old monks? Surely you and your sword are no match for any of them.”

“Nothing yet I can point to with conviction. But consider this. When I returned to the stables earlier to see all was well with the horse, I heard sounds coming from the stall behind. I mean this other stall was separated by a wall, but I could hear another horse beyond, though no horse was there when we first arrived and I led in my horse. Then when I walked to the other side, I found there the stable door shut and a great lock hanging on it only a key would release. It would seem since our own arrival some other visitor has come, and one anxious to keep his presence hidden.”

“Yes…Father Brian, the monk who brought us food, made mention of an important visitor arriving for the abbot, and their great conference being delayed on account of his coming. It cannot have anything to do with us, given that our arrival was unplanned and unannounced.”

Darcy nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right and a little sleep would calm my suspicions. Even so, I wandered further from this place, and not too long ago I heard a groaning from those quarters over there” and Darcy turned and pointed, “as of a man in pain. Creeping indoors after this sound, I saw marks of blood both old and fresh outside a closed chamber.”

“Curious certainly. Yet there’d be no mystery in a monk meeting some unfortunate accident, perhaps tripping on these very steps.”

Darcy looked at Elizabeth intently. “I fear that my suspicions are making you afraid. I concede, Miss, I’ve no hard reason to suppose anything amiss here. Perhaps it’s a warrior’s instinct makes me wish my sword was in my belt and I was done pretending to be a farmboy. Or maybe my fears derive simply from what these walls whisper to me of days gone by.”

That somehow caught Elizabeth’s attention. “What can you mean?”

“Only that not long ago, this place was surely no monastery, but a hillfort, and one well made to fight off foes. You recall the exhausting road we climbed? How the path turned back and forth as though eager to drain our strength? Look down there now, see the battlements running above those same paths. It’s from there the defenders once showered their guests from above with arrows, rocks, boiling water. It would have been a feat merely to reach the gate.”

“I see it now, from this vantage.”

“Also, look around you Princess. You’re too smart to not notice. I’d wager this fort was once in Saxon hands, for I see about it many signs of my kin. Look there” Darcy said, pointing down to a cobbled yard below hemmed in by walls. “I fancy just there stood a second gate, much stronger than the first, yet hidden to invaders climbing the road. They saw only the first and strained to storm it, but that gate would have been what we Saxons call a watergate, after those barriers that control a river’s flow. Through this watergate would be let past, quite deliberately, a measured number of the enemy. Then the watergate would close on those following. Now those isolated between the two gates, in that space just there, would find themselves outnumbered, and once again, attacked from above. They would be slaughtered before the next group let through. You see how it worked. This is today a place of peace and prayer, yet you needn’t gaze so deep to find blood and terror.”

“You read it well, and I shudder at what you show me.”

“I’d wager too there were Saxon families here, fled from far and wide seeking protection in this fort. Women, children, wounded, old, sick. See over there, the yard where the monks gathered earlier. All but the weakest would have come out and stood there, all the better to witness the invaders squeal like trapped mice between the two gates.”

“They would surely have hidden themselves below and prayed for deliverance!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“Only the most cowardly of them. Most would have stood there in that yard, or even come up here where we now stand, happy to risk an arrow or spear to enjoy the agonies below.”

Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. “Surely the sort of people you speak of would take no pleasure in bloodshed, even of the enemy.”

“On the contrary. I speak of people at the end of a brutal road, having seen their children and kin mutilated and ravished. They’ve reached this, their sanctuary, only after long torment, death chasing at their heels. And now comes an invading army of overwhelming size. The fort may hold several days, perhaps even a week or two. But they know in the end they will face their own slaughter. They know the infants they circle in their arms will before long be bloodied toys kicked about these cobbles. They know because they’ve seen it already, from whence they fled. They’ve seen the enemy burn and cut, take turns to rape young girls even as they lie dying of their wounds. They know this is to come, and so must cherish the earlier days of the siege, when the enemy first pay the price for what they will later do. In other words, it’s vengeance to be relished in advance by those not able to take it in its proper place.”

“How is it possible to hate so deeply for deeds not yet done? The good people who once took shelter here would have kept alive their hopes to the end, and surely watched all suffering, of friend and foe, with pity and horror.”

Darcy exhaled deeply. “I’ve seen dark hatred as bottomless as the sea on the faces of old women and tender children, and some days felt such hatred myself.”

“We talk of a barbarous past hopefully gone for ever. Our argument need never be put to the test, thank God.”

The warrior looked strangely at Elizabeth. He appeared about to say something, then to change his mind.

“What is it? You…Darcy, please?”

“Elizabeth, I have felt such hatred myself. And so have you.”

“Please talk to me. Please tell me.”

“I…we met as the war was at an end.” Darcy spoke with such a sadness in his voice that Elizabeth’s heart turned. “You do not remember, of course. Or, perhaps not the details. And this is not the time nor place for this discussion. Perhaps after we speak to Jonus. Perhaps after I have a better idea of what is happening here in this monastery. But I need you to…for your own well-being, of course! I need you to at least remember this, even if you have no recollection and no feeling of it.

Sir Bennet fought in the war, yes, but you had been in the frontlines too. You had been a bit of a medicine woman, and your services were needed. You saw death. You lived through the barbarous past as a very young woman. Your sister…” Darcy looked down. “You do not recall her now. You had a younger sister Mary. She was killed during the war. Your mother too, was a victim of the war. There was a time without this peace, aye, but also without this dullness in mind, spirit, and feeling. You felt a great deal more then than you do now.”

_Mary._

She had had a sister…dead…killed in a war she had no recollection of…Elizabeth’s throat was dry and she felt her head spin. Near the oak, when her father had been speaking of Arthur, there had been a nagging, uneasy feeling in her. There had been a fragment of memory, of her standing inside a tent, a large one of the sort an army erects near a battlefield. Nighttime, with a heavy candle flickering, others in the tent with her. She had been angry about something, but had understood the importance of hiding her anger.

Now the full force of that memory hit her.

 _MARY._ Mary was dead, lying on the ground amongst other bodies. Covered in blood, beyond the capacity of her own limited ministrations. Rage, red hot rage, flowing through her veins. Her father the knight, who had insisted that Mary, too young to have been on a battlefield, be there to help Elizabeth. Her father, absent at the death of his third daughter. Mary, buried without the rites due to the dead.

This is why she had been unable to stop watching as Darcy dug a grave for Ivor…Ivor, whom they had buried with all the respect necessary in death, the respect that she had never been able to give Mary.

She looked up as Darcy squeezed her shoulder and offered her his cloth. It was then that Elizabeth realised that there were tears running down her face.

“How…how do you know? Were you there with me?”

Darcy shook his head. “You told me.”


	13. The Monastery

Their conversation was oddly stilted, yet comfortable. Elizabeth was too upset to think, or discuss the past, which Darcy seemed to understand. Therefore, he instead spoke to her of his observations for some time.

“Wandering these grounds earlier, my arms heavy with firewood, I spotted at every turn fascinating traces of that past. The monks here hardly know what they pass each day.”

“You are overcome by suspicion. Will the soldiers really come? Who’ll tell them we’re here? Surely these monks believe you to be but a simple shepherd.”

“Perhaps we’ll be left in peace. But there’s one I fancy may betray our presence here, and even now the good Brennus may be issuing his orders. If you don’t mind, please test that well. I have heard that Britons have a way of dividing a bale from within with wooden slats. I need it pure hay all the way down.”

They had made it to the barn behind the old tower. Darcy had clearly worked here earlier in the day, and now had returned to finish his task. The warrior had apparently been seized by the urge to load a rickety wagon high with the hay stored at the back of the shed. As Darcy had set about a return to this task, Elizabeth had been required at regular intervals to clamber up onto the bales and prod into them with a stick.

“These holy men are just the sort to get absent-minded,” Darcy said by way of explanation. “They may have left a spade or pitchfork in the hay. If so, it would be a service to retrieve it for them, tools being scarce up here.”

Although Darcy gave no hint as to the purpose of the hay, Elizabeth knew straight away it had to do with some confrontation that he was expecting.

“Who’ll betray you? The monks don’t suspect anything. They’re so concerned with their holy quarrels, they hardly glance our way.”

“Maybe so. But just now let’s concentrate on what faces us here. We must load this wagon in a sure and steady way. We need pure hay. No wood or iron there.”

Elizabeth was touched that he trusted her enough with his defence mechanisms to make her part of it. “You have been preoccupied with that old tower from the time we first arrived at the monastery. You were continually glancing up at it.”

Darcy bit his lip in contemplation, before speaking. “When we entered under the low arch into the chilly dimness of the tower’s interior, what did you see at your feet?”

Elizabeth thought back. “A kind of moat which followed the circular wall all the way to form a ring, on the inside of the tower. It seems too wide for a man to jump, with the simple bridge of two planks the only way to reach the central floor of trodden earth.”

“And did you notice the lack of water in the moat? And even if you fell right in, I’d say you’d find it no deeper than your own height. Curious, don’t you think? Also, why a moat on the inside? What good can a moat do on the inside?”

Elizabeth tried to think analytically. “Perhaps, the ancients built the tower to slaughter animals. Perhaps once it was their killing floor. What they didn’t wish to keep of an animal, they simply pushed over the side into the moat. When I looked up, and saw a circle of clear sky high above. It’s open at the top, Darcy. Like a chimney.”

“That is an excellent observation. What do you make of it?”

“If the ancients used this place for their slaughter, Darcy, they’d have been able to build a fire in the centre. They could have jointed the animal, roasted the meat, the smoke escaping up to the sky.”

“What else did you see looking up, Princess?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Only the steps.”

“Ah, the steps. Tell me about the steps.”

“They first rise over the moat, then circle and circle, bending with the roundness of the wall. They rise till they reach the sky at the top.”

“That’s well observed. Now listen carefully.” Darcy stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Like I said earlier, this place, not just this old tower, but this entire place, I’d wager was once a hillfort built by my Saxon forefathers in times of war. So it contains many cunning traps to welcome invading Britons.”

Darcy moved away and slowly paced the perimeter of the barn. Eventually he looked up again and said “Imagine this place a fort. The siege broken after many days, the enemy pouring in. Fighting in every yard, on every wall. Now picture this. Two Saxons, out there in the yard, hold back a large body of Britons. They fight bravely, but the enemy’s too great in number and our heroes must retreat. Let’s suppose they retreat into the tower. They skip across the little bridge and turn to face their foes. The Britons grow confident. They have my cousins cornered. They press in with their swords and axes, hurry over the bridge towards our heroes. The heroes bring down the first of the Britons, but soon must retreat further. They retreat up those winding, narrow stairs along the wall. Still more Britons cross the moat until the space is filled. Yet the Britons’ greater numbers can’t yet be turned to advantage, what with the narrow stairs. The heroes are skilled, and though they retreat higher and higher, the invaders cannot overwhelm them. As Britons fall, those following take their place, then fall in their turn. But surely my cousins grow weary. Higher and higher they retreat, the invaders pursue them stair by stair. Do my forefathers finally lose their nerve? They turn and run the remaining circles of steps, only now and then striking behind them. This is surely the end. But look carefully. What do you see? What do you see as my Saxon cousins near that halo of sky above?”

Elizabeth swallowed. “I see a trap.” She considered for a moment. “Just before the stairway reaches its highest point, there was what looked to be an alcove. Or is it a doorway?”

“Good. And what do you suppose hides there?”

“Can it be a dozen more warriors?”

“Hmmm,” Darcy said. “How would they have known to hide there in advance? And where is that much space? Let’s try again.”

Think like a soldier, Elizabeth told herself. She thought further. “Fire, Darcy! There’s fire behind that alcove!”

“Well said. We can’t know for sure what happened so long ago. Yet I’d wager that’s what waited up there. In that little alcove, hardly glimpsed from down, was a torch, or maybe two or three, blazing behind that wall. Tell me the rest, Princess.”

“Our heroes throw the torches down.”

“What, onto the heads of the enemy?”

“No, down into the moat.”

“The moat? Filled with water?”

“No,” Elizabeth said, and now grinned. “The moat’s filled with firewood. Just like the firewood you’ve sweated to cut. The enemy is now surrounded by fire inside the tower, and only a narrow rickety bridge to escape the tower, with fire fanning both sides of bridge, and nothing beyond the stairs but open sky.”

Darcy grinned back at her, and Elizabeth felt herself glow. “But the heroes. Must they burn in the flames with their foes?”

“That would certainly be a noble death. But enough of this. While we share this quiet moment, let me ask your forgiveness, for the discomfort I have caused you. I refer, of course, to my anger and bitterness over the loss of your memory.”

“Think no more of it, sir. There’s no offence taken. This is…it has been difficult for all of us.”

“I thank you for your understanding. But it still does not excuse my conduct. I…you are one who I can never forget, and I was bitter and angry over your lack of remembrance. I acted as a little child. My conduct was shameful.”

“But understandable,” Elizabet said quietly. “I am so upset with myself for not having memories of many things. In your place, I may have acted the same. We…I remember some now. I recall that you had a stallion then, not a mare like now.”

“That’s right, when I came to your village – not this same village as now, but the one from your past. The stallion, in a village who knew only farmers and boatmen, was a thing of wonder.”

“I recall the boys following you all about the village, though always at a shy distance. Some days you’d move with urgency, talking with Elders or calling a crowd to gather in the square. Other days you’d wander at leisure, talking as if to pass the day.”

There was a smile in Darcy’s eyes. “But _you_ never spoke to me, always keeping your distance…you thought me proud.”

“Until I needed your help to fetching the bucket I lost,” Elizabeth said, smiling shyly. She realised that as she spoke, the smaller details of her past came to her naturally.

“I am grateful for that lost bucket.”

Elizabeth was about to respond, to speak more of their shared past, when a sound, as a distant human screech, disturbed them.

Darcy looked about, immediately suspicious. He spoke quietly. “I wish to discover what that may be about. Let us walk as we’ve no clear purpose to see what is about, in case a monk is left on purpose to spy on us.”

Indeed, they found a solitary monk sweeping the courtyard and as they came closer, Elizabeth noticed he was mouthing words silently to himself, lost in his world. He barely glanced their way as Darcy led them across the courtyard and into a gap between two buildings. They emerged where thin grass covered uneven sloping ground, and a row of withered trees, hardly taller than a man, marked a path leading away from the monastery.

They came upon three wooden shacks standing at the side of the lane, in such disrepair that each appeared to be held up by its neighbour. The wet ground was rutted with wheeltracks, and Darcy paused to point these out.

Elizabeth wondered why anyone would visit such downtrodden sheds, especially with a barrow.

Darcy stepped inside the first shed; Elizabeth left to explore the furthest of the three shacks. There was no door, and much of the roof was open to the sky. As she came in, several birds flew off in furious commotion, and Elizabeth saw, in the gloomy space vacated, a crudely made cart - perhaps the work of the monks themselves - its two wheels sunk into the mud.

What arrested the attention was a large cage mounted on its carriage, and coming closer, Elizabeth noticed that though the cage was itself iron, a thick wooden pillar ran down its spine, fixing it firmly to the boards underneath. This same post was festooned with chains and manacles, and at head height, what appeared to be a blackened iron mask, though with no holes for the eyes, and only a small one for the mouth.

The cart, and the area all around it, was covered with feathers and droppings. Elizabeth pulled open the cage door and proceeded to move it back and forth on its squeaking hinge.

Elizabeth heard Darcy enter behind her. “It’s curious,” she said, “these monks should have need of such an object as this. Do you suppose that it is to aid some pious ritual?”

Darcy started to move around the cart, stepping carefully to avoid the stagnant puddles. “I saw something like this once before,” he said. “You may suppose this device intended to expose the man within it to the cruelty of the elements. Yet look, see how these bars stand far enough apart to allow my shoulder to pass through. And here, look, how these feathers stick to the iron in hardened blood. A man fastened here is offered thus to the mountain birds. Caught in these cuffs, he has no way to fight off the hungry beaks. This iron mask, though it may look frightful, is in fact a thing of mercy, for with it the eyes at least aren’t feasted on.”

Elizabeth stepped back in horror, gasping.

“Earlier, I found a spot nearby on the cliff’s edge,” Darcy said, eventually. “The ground was well rutted there, showing where this wagon has often stayed. In other words, the signs all support my guess, and I can see too this cart’s been wheeled out just lately.”

“This object sends a chill through me and I fear for Lydia, out there alone with naught but the protection of your horse. I also become more and more worried for the lack of my father’s presence. Is Lydia going to be safe, left here alone?”

Darcy looked grim, but made no answer. As they came out of the shack, Darcy stopped abruptly. Looking past him into the evening gloom, Elizabeth could see a robed figure in the tall grass a short distance from them.

“I’d say it’s the monk lately sweeping the yard,” Darcy said to her.

“Does he see us?”

“I’d say he sees us and knows we see him. Yet he stands there still as a tree. Well, let’s go to him.”

The monk was standing at a spot to the side of their path, the grass up to his knee. As they approached the man remained quite still, though the wind pulled at his robe and long white hair. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his protruding eyes stared at them without expression.

“You observe us, sir,” Darcy said, stopping, “and you know what we’ve just discovered. So perhaps you’d tell us the purpose to which you monks put that device.”

Saying nothing, the monk pointed towards the monastery.

“It may be he’s vowed to silence,” Elizabeth said. “Or else as mute as you lately pretended.”

The monk came out of the grass and onto the path. His strange eyes fixed each of them in turn, then he pointed again towards the monastery and set off. They followed him, just a short distance behind, the monk continually glancing back at them over his shoulder.

The monastery buildings were now dark shapes against the setting sky. As they drew closer, the monk paused, moved his forefinger over his lips, then continued at a more cautious pace. He seemed anxious they remain unseen, and to avoid the central courtyard. He took them down narrow passageways behind buildings where the earth was pitted or sloped severely. Once, as they went with heads bowed along a wall, there came from the very windows above sounds from the monks’ conference. One voice was shouting over a hubbub, then a second voice - perhaps that of the abbot - called for order. But there was no time to loiter, and soon they were gathered at an archway through which could be seen the main courtyard. The monk now indicated with urgent signs that they were to proceed as quickly and quietly as possible.

As it was they were not obliged to cross the courtyard, where torches were now burning, but only to skirt one corner under the shadows of a colonnade. When the monk halted again, Elizabeth whispered to “Good sir, since your intention must be to take us somewhere, I’d ask you to let me go fetch my sister, for I’m uneasy leaving her alone.”

The monk, who had turned immediately to fix Elizabeth in a stare, shook his head and pointed into the semi-dark. Only then did she spot Lydia standing in a doorway further down the cloister. Relieved, she gave a wave, and there came from behind them a surge of angry voices from the monks’ meeting.

“Lizzy! I was so scared, when this silent monk appeared before me, like a phantom. I was defiant, but then became scared after everything so agreed to come with him.”

“It’s fine now, Lydia. He’s keen to lead us somewhere and we’d best follow.”

The monk repeated his gesture for silence, then beckoning, pushed past Lydia across the threshold where she had been waiting.

The corridors now became as tunnel-like, and the lamps flickering in the little alcoves hardly dispelled the darkness. Elizabeth felt Darcy hold her arm with one hand, keeping his other held out before him.

For a moment they were back in the open air, crossing a muddy yard between ploughed allotments, then into another low stone building. Here the corridor was wider and lit by larger flames, and the monk seemed finally to relax. Recovering his breath, he looked them over once more, then signalling for them to wait, vanished under an arch. After a little time, the monk appeared again and ushered them forward. As he did so, a frail voice from within said “Come in, guests. A poor chamber this to receive you, but you’re welcome.”

The three of them, together with the silent monk, squeezed into the tiny cell. A candle was burning next to the bed, and she felt Lydia recoil as she caught sight of the figure lying in it. There was hardly space for them all, but they had before long arranged themselves around the bed, Darcy and Lydia in the corner furthest away.

There was a faint smell of vomit and urine. The silent monk, meanwhile, was fussing about the man in the bed, helping to raise him to a sitting position. Their host was white-haired and advanced in years. His frame was large, and until recently must have been vigorous, but now the simple act of sitting up appeared to cause multiple agonies. A coarse blanket fell from around him as he raised himself, revealing a nightshirt patched with bloodstains. But what had caused Lydia to shrink back was the man’s neck and face, starkly illuminated by the bedside candle. A swollen mound under one side of the chin, a deep purple fading to a yellow, obliged the head to be held at a slight angle. The peak of the mound was split and caked with pus and old blood. On the face itself, a gouge ran from just below the cheek bone down to the jaw, exposing a section of the man’s inner mouth and gum. It must have cost him greatly to smile, but once he was settled in his new position, the monk did just this.

“Welcome, welcome. I’m Jonus, whom I know you waited a long way to see. My dear guests, don’t look at me with such pity. These wounds are no longer new, and hardly bring the pain they once did.”

“We see now, Father Jonus,” Elizabeth said, “why your good abbot’s so reluctant to have strangers impose on you. We’d have waited for his permission, but this kind monk led us to you.”

“Ninian here is my most trusted friend, and even if he’s vowed to silence, we understand one another perfectly. He’s watched each of you since your arrival and brought me frequent reports. I thought it time we met, even if the abbot knows nothing of it.”

“But what can have caused you such injuries, father?” Elizabeth asked. “And you a man famed for kindness and wisdom.”

“Let’s leave the topic, Miss, for my feeble strength won’t allow us to speak for long. I know two of you here, yourself and your sister, seek my advice. Let me see your sister first, who I understand carries a wound. Come closer into the light, dear girl.”

The monk’s voice, though soft, possessed a natural command, and Lydia started to move towards him. But immediately Darcy reached forward and gripped Lydia by the arm. Perhaps it was an effect of the candle flame, or the warrior’s trembling shadow cast on the wall behind him, but it seemed to Elizabeth that for an instant Darcy’s eyes were fixed on the injured monk with peculiar intensity, even hatred.

The warrior drew Lydia back to the wall, then took a step forward himself as though to shield her.

“What’s wrong, shepherd?” asked Father Jonus. “Do you fear poison from my wounds will travel to her? Then my hand needn’t touch her. Let her step closer and my eyes alone will test her injury.”

“The girl’s wound is clean,” Darcy said. “It’s just Miss Elizabeth who seeks your help by way of advice.”

Darcy continued to stare at the monk. Father Jonus, in turn, regarded the warrior as though he were a thing of great fascination. After a while, Father Jonus said “You stand with remarkable boldness for a humble shepherd.”

“It must be the habit of my trade. A shepherd must stand long hours watchful of wolves gathering in the night.”

“No doubt that’s so. I imagine too how a shepherd must judge quickly, hearing a sound in the dark, if it heralds danger or the approach of a friend. Much must rest on the ability to make such decisions quickly and well.”

“Only a foolish shepherd hears a snapping twig or spots a shape in the dark and assumes a companion come to relieve him. We’re a cautious breed, and what’s more, sir, I’ve just now seen with my own eyes the device in your shed.”

“Ah. I thought you’d come upon it sooner or later. What do you make of your discovery, shepherd?”

“It angers me.”

“Angers you?” Father Jonus rasped this with some force, as though himself suddenly angered. “Why does it anger you?”

“Tell me if I’m wrong, sir. My surmise is that the custom here has been for the monks to take turns in that cage exposing their bodies to the wild birds, hoping this way to atone for crimes once committed in this country and long unpunished. Even these ugly wounds I see here before me have been gained in this way, and for all I know a sense of piety eases your suffering. Yet let me say I feel no pity to see your gashes. How can you describe as penance, sir, the drawing of a veil over the foulest deeds? Is your Christian god one to be bribed so easily with self-inflicted pain and a few prayers? Does he care so little for justice left undone?”

“Our god is a god of mercy, shepherd, whom you, a pagan, may find hard to comprehend. It’s no foolishness to seek forgiveness from such a god, however great the crime. Our god’s mercy is boundless.”

“What use is a god with boundless mercy, sir? You mock me as a pagan, yet the gods of my ancestors pronounce clearly their ways and punish severely when we break their laws. Your Christian god of mercy gives men licence to pursue their greed, their lust for land and blood, knowing a few prayers and a little penance will bring forgiveness and blessing.”

“It’s true, shepherd, that here in this monastery, there are those who still believe such things. But let me assure you, Ninian and I have long let go such delusions, and neither are we alone. We know our god’s mercy is not to be abused, yet many of my brother monks, the abbot included, will not yet accept this. They still believe that cage, and our constant prayers, will be enough. Yet these dark crows and ravens are a sign of God’s anger. They never came before. Even last winter, though the wind made the strongest of us weep, the birds were but mischievous children, their beaks bringing only small sufferings. A shake of the chains or a shout was enough to keep them at bay. But now a new breed comes to find us, larger, bolder and with fury in their eyes. They tear at us in calm anger, no matter how we struggle or cry out. We’ve lost three dear friends these past months, and many more of us carry deep wounds. These surely are signs.”

Darcy’s manner had been softening, but he had kept himself firmly in front of Lydia. “Are you saying,” he asked, “I have friends here in this monastery?”

“In this room, shepherd, yes. Elsewhere, we remain divided and even now they argue in great passion about how we are to continue. The abbot will insist we carry on as always. Others of our view will say it’s time to stop. That no forgiveness awaits us at the end of this path. That we must uncover what’s been hidden and face the past. But those voices, I fear, remain few and will not carry the day. Shepherd, will you trust me now to see this girl’s wound?”

For a moment Darcy remained still. Elizabeth put her hand on his shoulder. She had come to trust Father Jonus, and believe that his words held some truth. After a pause, Darcy moved aside, signalling to Lydia to step forward. Immediately the silent monk helped Father Jonus to a more upright position - both monks had become suddenly quite animated - then grasping the candleholder from the bedside, tugged Lydia closer.

For what seemed a long time, both monks went on looking at Lydia’s wound - Ninian moving the light one way then the other - as though it were a pool within which a miniature world was contained. Eventually the monks exchanged what seemed to Elizabeth looks of triumph, but the very next moment Father Jonus fell shaking back onto his pillows, with an expression closer to resignation or else sadness. As Ninian hastily put down the candle to attend to him, Lydia slipped back into the shadows.

“Father Jonus,” Elizabeth said, “now you’ve seen the wound, tell us if it’s clean and will heal on its own.”

Father Jonus’s eyes were closed, and he was still breathing heavily, but he said quite calmly “Father Ninian will prepare an ointment. Your shepherd here knows what needs to be done for the wound.”

“Father,” Elizabeth said, pressing ahead. “Your present conversation with this shepherd isn’t entirely within my understanding. Yet it interests me greatly.”

“Is that so, Miss?” Father Jonus, still recovering his breath, opened his eyes and looked at her.

“When I left my village, I asked two Elders, one being my uncle, about this fog, the same that makes us forget the last hour as readily as a morning many years past. They said if there was one wise enough to know, it would be you, Father Jonus, up here in this monastery. It was my hope you’d tell us something of this mist and how my village might be free of it. It may be I’m a foolish woman, but it seemed to me just now, for all the talk of shepherds, you and Darcy were speaking of this same fog, and much bothered by what’s been lost of our past. So let me ask this of you, and Darcy too. Do the both of you know for certain what causes this fog to fall over us?”

Father Jonus and Darcy exchanged looks. Then Darcy said quietly “It’s the dragon Querig, Princess, that roams these peaks. She’s the cause of the mist you speak of. Yet these monks here protect Querig, and have done so for years. I’d wager even now, if they’re wise to my identity, they’ll have sent for men to destroy me.”

“Father Jonus, is the fog the work of this she-dragon?” Elizabeth asked.

The monk, who for an instant had seemed far away, turned to her. “The shepherd tells the truth, Miss. It’s Querig’s breath which fills this land and robs you of memories.”

Elizabeth blinked rapidly, trying to piece together her thoughts at this confirmation. “The she-dragon’s the cause of the fog…so then…if some one can slay the creature, our memories will be restored to us?”

Nobody answered her question.

Father Jonus said to Darcy, “Shepherd, if you know your danger, why do you dally here? Why not take this girl and be on your way?”

“The girl needs rest, as do I.”

“But you don’t rest, shepherd. You cut firewood and wander like a hungry wolf.”

“When we arrived your log pile was low. And the nights are cold in these mountains.”

“You’ve come to this country on an errand, shepherd. Why jeopardise yourself? I say to you, take this girl and be on your way, even before the monks come out of their meeting.”

Elizbeth’s blood chilled, as she understood the meaning behind Father Jonus’ words.

“Father, I have nowhere to take this girl, or even Miss Elizabeth. My path forward is paved with danger and uncertainty; I cannot protect either of them much further than this. Besides, if Lord Brennus does me the courtesy to come here after me this night, I’m obliged then to stand and face him.”

Elizabeth recalled the conversation between her father and Darcy, moments before Steffa Ivor passed, as well as their dialogue soon thereafter. She wanted to speak to Darcy, to be free of danger, to explore their past and perhaps work together for a joint future.

That was what she wanted.

But, Elizabeth realised that there was something more important, something more important than her wants.

“Darcy,” she said, “if it’s your mission to slay the great dragon Querig, I beg you, don’t be distracted from it. Lydia nor I are your responsibilities. You should not let us hold you back from your mission.”

“The Miss is right, shepherd,” Father Jonus said. “I fear I know too the purpose of all this woodcutting. Listen to what we say, sir. This girl with her wound gives you a unique chance the like of which may not come your way again. Take her and be on your way. We will arrange for Miss Elizabeth to be taken back to her village safely.”

Darcy looked thoughtfully at Father Jonus, then bowed his head politely. “I’m happy to have met you, father. And I apologise if earlier I addressed you discourteously. But now let me take my leave of you. If Miss Elizabeth still wishes for advice, and she’s a brave and good woman, I beg you preserve some strength to attend to her. I will wait outside. Now I’ll thank you for your counsel, and bid you farewell.”

Darcy departed Father Jonus’s chamber. The silent monk, Ninian, left as well, probably to provide the ointment. Lydia, looking between Elizabeth and the departing Darcy, chose to follow him.

Father Jonus looked up at Elizabeth. “Miss, you seem happy to know the truth about this thing you call the fog.”

“Happy indeed, father, for now there’s a way forward for us.”

“Take care, for it’s a secret guarded jealously by some, though it’s maybe for the best it remains so no longer.”

“It’s not for me to care if it’s a secret or not, father, but I’m glad to know it, and gladder still that it can be acted on.”

“Yet are you so certain, good Miss, you wish to be free of this fog? Your shepherd calls it a mist. Is it not better some things remain hidden from our minds?”

“It may be so for some, father, but not for me. I wish to have again the happy moments that – the happy moments from my past. The love that I shared, the pain of loss. The tears of joy and sorrow. To be robbed of them is as if a thief came in the night and took what’s most precious from me.”

“Yet the fog covers all memories, the bad as well as the good. Isn’t that so, Miss?”

“I’ll have the bad ones come back too, even if they make us weep or shake with anger. For isn’t it the life we’ve led?”

“You’ve no fear, then, of bad memories?”

“What’s to fear, father? What I feel today in my heart tells me that truth, no matter how painful, is a better medicine than to stay lost and hidden all my life. Joy can be found in the journey of life, no matter what sorrows and hardships we pass through. How am I to appreciate the good things, when I have nothing else in my memories to compare that to? How do I recognise happiness without unhappiness, or recognise sadness having never remembered joy? I cannot continue to live like this, in a perennial fogged existence.”

Father Jonus nodded slowl, closing his eyes. After a few moments of silence, Elizabeth realised that the father was in no shape for further conversation. She poured him a glass of water, and exited the room.

After she left Father Jonus, she found Darcy, Lydia, and Father Ninian waiting outside in silence. They were then returned to their chamber on the upper storey where much earlier, she and Lydia had enjoyed lunch.

The monks had taken some time to disperse after emerging from their meeting. Father Brian returned to give them some dinner, which was gratefully accepted. Quietly, while eating, Darcy asked that she think about what she wanted to do. He pointed out that Elizabeth knew the dangers of the monastery, particularly of leaving Lydia there, but returning with Lydia to the village was equally not an option. He warned also that there was little place else to wander further forward that they could be certain was trustworthy and would not bring harm to Lydia.

Darcy stayed with them, sitting over by the window, dozing, waiting for the last monk to leave the courtyard below, and then went out into the night.

Lydia immediately fell asleep, but Elizabeth struggled. Several times she came close to sleep only to be brought to the surface again by voices below. Sometimes they were four or five, always lowered, often filled with anger or fear.

Elizabeth could not shake the feeling there were monks below their window, not just a few, but dozens of robed figures, standing silently under the moonlight.

On top of that, the sounds of Darcy’s blows resounded across the grounds. The woodcutting noises paused briefly, then started up again. It occurred to Elizabeth that the warrior might remain outside the entire night. Darcy appeared calm and thoughtful, even in combat, yet it was possible the tensions of the last two days had mounted on his nerves.

Even so, his behaviour worried Elizabeth. Father Jonus had specifically warned against further woodcutting, yet here he was, back at it again and with night well fallen. Darcy, as far as Elizabeth knew, had not slept at all. And now here he was cutting more firewood. It was with these thoughts that Elizabeth eventually fell asleep.

* * *

Elizabeth didn’t know how long she had slept, but awoke to a hand shaking her.

By the time she sat up, the figure was already on the other side of the room, bending over Lydia and whispering, “Quickly, quickly! And not a sound!”

Lydia started to stir, and Elizabeth rose unsteadily to her feet, the cold air startling her. She reached down to grasp Lydia’s outstretched hands.

It was still the depths of night, but voices were calling outside and surely torches had been lit in the courtyard below, for there were now illuminated patches on the wall facing the window.

Elizabeth tried to shake off her sleepiness, as she felt Lydia’s hand slip away. She followed the space where Lydia had been, to hear shuffling. Soon, Wickham’s face emerged from the dark.

“Shhhh, not a sound, and hurry!”


	14. The Making Of Wickham

Elizabeth didn’t know how long she had slept, but awoke to a hand shaking her.

By the time she sat up, the figure was already on the other side of the room, bending over Lydia and whispering, “Quickly, quickly! And not a sound!”

Lydia started to stir, Elizabeth rose unsteadily to her feet, the cold air startling her, then reached down to grasp Lydia’s outstretched hands.

It was still the depths of night, but voices were calling outside and surely torches had been lit in the courtyard below, for there were now illuminated patches on the wall facing the window.

Elizabeth tried to shake off her sleepiness, as she felt Lydia’s hand slip away. She followed the space where Lydia had been, to hear shuffling. Soon, Wickham’s face emerged from the dark.

“Shhhh, not a sound, and hurry!”

“Wickham!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“Shhhhhh!” Wickham hissed, this time anger joining the fear in his voice. “Are you trying to get us all killed?”

“What is happening?” Lydia asked trembling.

“What is _happening_ is that your father is in midst of making sure that you and Darcy die as quick a death as possible, unless I manage to smuggle you out of here first,” Wickham responded grimly. “Both of you, crouch down! I don’t want your shadows spotted.”

Elizabeth and Lydia obeyed unquestioningly.

“Where _is_ Darcy?” Elizabeth whispered. “What are _you_ doing here? What has my father done? I can’t leave without Darcy!”

“Oh, you are well leaving without Darcy, even if I have to knock you over the head and drag your senseless body out of here.” Wickham motioned them to be silent as he put his ear to the wall, and listened before speaking again. “I’ll try and save you, both of you,” Wickham said, his voice still a whisper, “but you must be quick and do as I say. There are soldiers arrived from Brennus’ camp, twenty, even thirty, with a will to hunt Lydia and Darcy down. I will explain all when we are safe. They surely have Darcy trapped by now, but he’s a lively one, keeping them occupied to give you both a chance. He bade me to help you escape. Be still, stay with me!” Lydia was moving to the window, but Wickham reached out and clasped her arm.

“We have to get to Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered plaintively. “We must help him!”

“I mean to lead you to safety, but we must first leave this chamber unseen. Soldiers cross the square below, but their eyes are on the tower where Darcy is holding out. With your god’s help they won’t notice us go down the steps outside, and then the worst will be behind us. With the help of my gods, they will all be cursed to their deaths. But cause no sound to make their gazes turn, and take care not to trip on the steps. I’ll descend first, then signal your moment to follow. No, you fool, you must leave your bundle here,” Wickham hissed at Lydia as she reached to get her few things together. “Let it be enough to keep your lives!”

Elizabeth was terrified. Wickham was hardly a person to trust, but she was left with little choice. She was frantic with worry about Darcy, but also realised that she had no knowledge or skills to go help him. She crouched near the door and listened to Wickham’s footsteps descend with agonising slowness. Eventually, when Elizabeth peered cautiously through the doorway, she saw torches moving at the far end of the courtyard; but before she could discern clearly what was going on, her attention was drawn by Wickham, standing directly below and signalling frantically.

The staircase, running diagonally down the side of the wall, was mostly in shadow except for one patch, quite near the ground, lit up brightly by the nearly full moon.

“Follow close behind me, Lydia,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t look across the yard, but keep your eyes on where your foot may find the next step, or it’ll be a hard fall and only enemies to come to our aid.”

“Is Darcy going to die?”

“Shhh, Lydia! Just follow me quietly.” Lydia had voiced the question Elizabeth was too scared. “He’s too clever by half to get himself killed here.”

Despite her own instructions, Elizabeth could not help glancing across the courtyard as she went down. On the far side, soldiers had gathered around the cylindrical stone tower overlooking the building in which the monks had earlier had their meeting. Blazing torches were being waved, and there appeared to be disorder in their ranks. When Elizabeth was halfway down the steps, two soldiers broke away and came running across the square, and she was sure they would be spotted.

But the men vanished into a doorway, and before long Elizabeth was gratefully ushering Lydia into the shadows of the cloisters where Wickham was waiting. They followed him along narrow corridors, through complete darkness.

Suddenly, Wickham drew his sword, and Elizabeth hear him whisper in harsh tones. “Stop right there; not a word out of you. I will gut you right here, for your brethren to clean up your innards in the morning.”

Lydia cowered behind her, and Elizabeth peered over Wickham’s shoulder, luckily glimpsing the emaciated monk with long white hair. “Wickham, wait! That monk is a friend! That’s Father Ninian.”

“There are no friends amongst these people,” Wickham muttered, but lowered his sword away from Father Ninian’s neck.

“Good father, do you know a way out of here?”

Father Ninian motioned for them to follow him; all the while Wickham kept his sword pressed against Father Ninian’s back. Then they came into a chamber whose ceiling had partly fallen away. Moonlight was pouring in, revealing piles of wooden boxes and broken furniture. Elizabeth could smell mould and stagnant water.

Father Ninian gestured for them to go inside, and went into the chamber and started clearing a corner, moving objects aside. He then stopped, and they all saw part of a trap door. He then bowed, and made to leave the chamber when Elizabeth stopped him.

“Father, do you know what happened to Darcy? The shepherd that was with us?”

Father Ninian looked at her, expression inscrutable. He then patted her head, bowed, and exited the chamber.

“Wickham, sir,” Elizabeth said, “we’re grateful to you for this rescue, but please tell us what’s occurred.”

Wickham started clearing the corner, to enable them to open the trapdoor fully. He did not look up as he spoke. “I went to Brennus’ camp to see what information I could gather; I thought I would hear something to bargain for my freedom from my King, or even Darcy. Instead, I found Sir Bennet being entertained as a favoured guest of Brennus, and soldiers preparing to attack the Saxon warrior and the ‘dragon witch’,” at this Wickham looked up to motion at Lydia, as if there could be any confusion who was being spoken about.

“I was unable to have the death of _both_ Darcy siblings on my conscience; besides, saving Darcy would all but guarantee my pardon. I believe Sir Bennet came here earlier to warn the abbot, and I also hurried here. However, I got caught myself, and had to slay several soldiers before I was able to steal a horse and come here to warn Darcy. By then the soldiers were already here making their demands; Darcy bade me to leave him and save the two of you and that then my pardon would be secure. Assuming that anyone believes me if Darcy does not survive,” Wickham added grimly.

“The soldiers may yet come on our heels, for we left no barred doors behind us. And I trust none of the monks here. Those soldiers do not care for you, but they will surely murder Lydia here on the spot, and a Saxon such as I will be meted out the same punishment. Help me raise this door.”

It took the effort of all three of them to raise the door till it stood up at a steep angle before them, revealing a square of deeper blackness.

“Where does that go?” Lydia asked.

“Probably an ancient tunnel,” Wickham surmised. “It’ll take us either to the river or into the forest, and I care not which. Get in, quickly, both of you.”

“What about Darcy?” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Surely you don’t mean to say that we should just escape, abandoning him here?”

“It’s not what _I_ am saying; it’s what _he_ asked us to do. And what do you suggest? Out of the two of you, neither have any worthy skills and they want to _kill_ Lydia. Remember, your _father_ plotted the death of Darcy and Lydia; you are a fool to think that there is some easy way out of here.”

“But…”

“You must save yourselves and there’ll be time later to ponder your father’s ways. And if Darcy is mad enough to buy your escape even with his own life, you must grasp it gratefully.”

Elizabeth started crying as Wickham’s words started sinking in.

“Is Darcy going to die?” Lydia asked again.

“Hopefully not,” Wickham said quickly. “Now, Lydia, be a dear and get down there.”

“I would rather go to Darcy’s aid,” Elizabeth said between her tears.

“We might help Darcy yet by making our escape through this tunnel. This is what he explicitly bade!”

As Elizabeth and Wickham argued, a change seemed to come over Lydia. She kept staring at the hole in the floor, and her eyes, caught in the moonlight, seemed to Elizabeth at that moment to have something strange about them, as though she were steadily coming under a spell. Lydia, without warning, walked towards the trap-door and without looking back at them, stepped into the blackness and vanished.

As her footsteps grew fainter, Wickham looked at Elizabeth expectantly. “Looks like Lydia has decided for you.”

Left with no choice, Elizabeth went down. The steps leading underground were shallow - flat stones sunk into earth - and felt solid enough. She could briefly see something of the way ahead by the light from the open trap-door above them, until Wickham slammed it shut behind him.

They all three stopped and for a while remained quite still. The air did not feel as stale as Elizabeth had expected; in fact she thought she could feel a faint breeze.

“Give me a moment,” Wickham said. Then there came a sharp noise, a striking sound repeating three times, four times. There were bright flashes, then a tiny flame which grew momentarily, then all was darkness again. Wickham tried a second time, and this time the flame stayed steady. “Here,” he said to Elizabeth, “You hold the candle, as I need my hands free to draw my sword if needed. We have certainly escaped one nightmare, only to enter another.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no doubting there’s soldiers in the monastery, for didn’t we see them ourselves just now? I don’t see what choice we have but to go on and pray this tunnel brings us safely to the forest. But mark my words, this tunnel is full of danger. The way Lydia is moving ahead of us as if in pursuit, I will wager that this tunnel has carried her kind recently.”

“I fear that I don’t understand you,” Elizabeth said.

“You will, soon enough,” Wickham said dourly.

As they went forward, they found there was a feeble light beyond the candle, so that at times they could even make out each other’s outlines. There were sudden puddles that surprised their feet, and more than once during this phase of their journey, Elizabeth thought she heard a noise up ahead.

Wickham, clearly unused to silence in company of others, soon started speaking. “Think about this. The monastery was a fort once; Darcy was right about that one. So this tunnel was meant for war, not for praying. The monks are aware of Querig’s existence, and yet they do nothing. How do you suppose a dragon has stayed alive and well-fed all this time, with no one being attacked and no sightings? Where does the food come from?”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said, too tired to think.

“The monks!” Wickham exclaimed triumphantly. “The monks are supplying Querig with food, keeping her satiated. Darcy mentioned that most of them are against the slaying of Querig. And doesn’t it make you wonder how the knight meant to slay Querig has failed to do so all these years, and yet he lives at this monastery, his other duty being to care for the monks here?”

“My father…”

“Your useless vermin of a father. He knew Lydia was bit by an infant dragon; and he wants her killed for it. By Sunday he may even have convinced himself he saved you from your sister. And the work of whatever prowls this tunnel, should it cross his mind that we travelled through here, he’ll disown, or even call god’s will. Well, of _course_ something prowls this tunnel…it’s too convenient to have this tunnel here, a dragon nearby, and the two not connecting.”

“Are we going to run into a dragon here?” Elizabeth asked, aghast.

“If we do, you are on your own,” Wickham said plainly. “I agreed to help the two of you escape, I have no ability or desire to go hunt dragons on my own. Darcy really should have thought this through. Or perhaps we should not have followed that monk as you insisted. Britons are not to be trusted, even if they are attired in priestly garb.”

“But Wickham,” Elizabeth said, “do you really propose we walk further down this tunnel without knowing what we face?”

“What choice have we? The way back has us face instant death at the hands of Brennus’ men. There’s nothing for it but to go on, and with any luck this tunnel will be free of dragons and beasts. So let’s be on our way before this candle burns down, it’s the only one I have. Besides, don’t you have the amulet with you?”

“The what?”

“Your amulet…the one Lydia said you carried about yourself,” Wickham explained.

“My metal token!” Elizabeth had all but forgotten about it, in the chaos of the last several days. Holding the candle forbade her from reaching out for it. “What do you know of it? You were going to explain…”

“That’s Darcy’s mother’s work. I would recognise a description of it anywhere. The inscription is in Ingvaeonic, an old Saxon tongue, now all but forgotten.”

“I am not sure I understand you…”

“It’s Saxon magic,” Wickham said simply, “for those of us who believe in it. Ancient magic now, even by Saxon estimations. She made amulets for all of us – Darcy, Charles, and myself. To protect us from evil. When Lydia described it, I knew immediately that you had somehow stumbled on one of her charms, I thought then likely by theft.”

“Darcy gave it to me,” Elizabeth said, the memory returning to her unbidden. “Years and years ago, he gave it to me for protection. I laughed then, not believing it to have any power and felt more that it was a token of affection.”

“Many Saxons no longer believe in our own magic, but _I_ do. Nothing else explains how I have managed to be alive this far.”

Soon, there was no option but to go in single file, the passage remaining narrow, and the ceiling of dangling moss and sinewy roots grew lower and lower until even Lydia had to stoop. Elizabeth did her best to hold the candle high, but the breeze in the tunnel was now stronger, and she was often obliged to lower it and cover the flame with her other hand.

Then Lydia gasped, and they all stopped.

“My foot touched something!”

Elizabeth crouched forward and moved the candle here and there, revealing damp earth, tree roots and stones.

Then the flame illuminated a large bat lying on its back as though peacefully asleep, wings stretched right out. Its fur looked wet and sticky. The pig-like face was hairless, and little puddles had formed in the cavities of the outspread wings. The creature might indeed have been sleeping but for what was on the front of its torso. As Elizabeth brought the flame even closer, they all stared at the circular hole extending from just below the bat’s breast down to its belly, taking in parts of the ribcage to either side. The wound was peculiarly clean, as though someone had taken a bite from a crisp apple.

“What could have done work like this?” Elizabeth asked.

“Did you notice the creature’s bed?” Wickham asked. “It seemed to me the creature lay on a bed of bones, for I thought I saw a skull or two that could only have belonged to men.”

They couldn’t investigate Wickham’s claim further, as they were interrupted by a noise from further down the tunnel. It was hard to determine how distant or near it had been, but the sound was unmistakably the cry of an animal; it had resembled the howl of a wolf, though there had also been something of the deeper roar of a bear.

The cry had not been prolonged, but it made Lydia grab Elizabeth, and Wickham drew his sword.

For several moments, they remained standing in silence, listening for the sound to return. But nothing further came.

“Come on then,” Wickham said. “Perhaps we heard a beast, but we have no choice but to go on. Let’s go a little way in the dark, in case our candle hastens the beast our way.”

The tunnel became more tortuous, and they moved with greater caution, fearing what each turn would reveal. But they encountered nothing, nor heard the cry again. Then the tunnel descended steeply for a good distance before coming out into a large underground chamber.

They all paused to recover their breaths and look around at their new surroundings. After the long walk with the earth brushing their heads, it was a relief to see the ceiling not only so high above them, but composed of more solid material.

Once Wickham lit the candle again, Elizabeth realised they were in some sort of mausoleum, surrounded by walls bearing traces of murals and Roman letters. Before them a pair of substantial pillars formed a gateway into a further chamber of comparable proportions, and falling across this threshold was an intense pool of moonlight. Its source was not obvious: perhaps somewhere behind the high arch crossing the two pillars there was an opening which at that moment, by sheer chance, was aligned to receive the moon. The light illuminated much of the moss and fungus on the pillars, as well as a section of the next chamber, whose floor appeared to be covered in rubble, but which Elizabeth soon realised was comprised of a vast layer of bones. Only then did it occur to her that under her feet were more broken skeletons, and that this strange floor extended for the entirety of both chambers.

“This must be some ancient burial place,” she said aloud. “There are so many buried here.”

“The dead are gone,” Wickham said dismissively. “I’m more interested in things that will keep us alive. For example, this gateway before us. Look up there, you see it?”

Elizabeth held the candle higher, to reveal along the lower edge of the arch what appeared to be a row of spearheads pointing down to the ground. “A portcullis.”

“Exactly. This gate isn’t so ancient. Someone has raised it. See there, the ropes that hold it. And there, the pulleys. Someone comes here often to make this gate rise and fall, either to feed the beast, or to catch a meal for Querig.” Wickham stepped towards one of the pillars, his feet crunching over bones. “If I cut this rope, the gate will surely come down, it will bar our way out. Yet if the beast’s beyond, we’ll be shielded from it. _Why_ is Lydia singing?”

Indeed Lydia, back in the shadows, had started to sing; faintly at first, but then her voice had become steadily more conspicuous. Her song seemed to be a slow lullaby.

“She behaves as one bewitched,” Wickham said. “In any event, we must now decide. Do we walk on? Or do we cut this rope to give us at least a moment shielded from what lies beyond?”

“I say we cut the rope, sir. We can surely raise the gate again when we wish. Let’s first discover what we face while the gate’s down.”

Wickham took a further step forward, raised his sword and swung at the pillar. There was the sound of metal striking stone, and the lower section of the gate shook, but remained suspended. Wickham sighed with a hint of embarrassment. Then he repositioned himself, raised the sword again, and struck once more.

This time there was a snapping sound, and the gate crashed down raising a cloud of dust in the moonlight. Even Lydia stopped her singing at the sound.

For all that they were now effectively trapped, the lowering of the portcullis brought a sense of relief, and they all began to wander around the mausoleum.

Wickham, who sheathed his sword, went up to the bars and touched them gingerly. “Good iron,” he said. “It’ll do its work.”

Suddenly, Lydia was singing once more, not as loudly as before, but now in a curious posture. She had bent forward, a fist to each temple, and was moving slowly about in the shadows like someone in a dance enacting the part of an animal.

“I _told_ Darcy,” Wickham muttered.

“Told him what?”

“That’s a dragon bite. A dragon’s bite it is, and now the desire will be rising in her blood to seek her own kind. And in turn, any dragon near enough to scent her will come seeking Lydia. With time, and with a full moon…I _told_ Darcy… set Lydia loose in these peaks and she would have led him to Querig. And for this same reason, the monks and these soldiers would have her killed, including her own father.”

Elizabeth looked at Wickham. “So when Lydia was hearing mother’s voice…”

“She’s being called, by Querig. Look, she grows ever wilder!”

Lydia, still singing, pushed past them, and going up to the portcullis pressed herself against the bars.

“Get back,” Wickham said, grasping her shoulders. “There’s danger here, and that’s enough of your songs!”

Lydia gripped the bars with both hands, and for a moment she and Wickham tussled. Then they both broke off and stepped back from the gate. Elizabeth’s view was first obscured by them. Then the beast came into the pool of moonlight, and she saw it more clearly.

They might have been gazing at a large skinned animal: an opaque membrane, like the lining of a sheep’s stomach, was stretched tightly over the sinews and joints. Swathed as it was now in moon shadow, the beast appeared roughly the size and shape of a bull, but its head was distinctly wolf-like and of a darker hue - though even here the impression was of blackening by flames rather than of naturally dark fur or flesh. The jaws were massive, the eyes reptilian.

“That’s not a dragon,” Elizabeth said, “not that I have ever seen one. Is that a wolf?”

Wickham, who had immediately drawn his sword again, began to laugh quietly. “Not nearly as bad as I feared,” he said, then laughed a little more.

“Yet it bars our way to freedom.”

“It does that for sure. So we may stare at it for an hour until the soldiers come down the tunnel behind us. Or we may lift this gate and fight it.”

“Its eyes follow Lydia,” Elizabeth said quietly.

Lydia, now strangely calm, had been walking experimentally, first left, then to the right, always staring back at the beast whose gaze never left her.

“The creature hungers for her,” Wickham said thoughtfully. “It may have been a wolf once, or even a bear. There’s dragon spawn within this monster now for certain. I would wager this is the result of a dragon’s congress with some other creature, or a monster created after a dragon’s bite took over the original animal, whatever it was. It either wants to kill your sister, or mate with her. Those are the only choices here.”

Elizabeth would have given anything for Darcy’s counsel. “It awaits our next move with strange patience.”

“Well, there’s only one way forward. Here’s what I plan: let Lydia take the candle and go stand there at the back of the chamber. Then you, somehow raise this gate again. It’ll take all your strength. The beast will be free to come through. My fancy is it will make straight for Lydia, avoiding us two. Knowing the path of its charge, I’ll stand here and cut it down as it passes.”

“That’s a desperate scheme! If you miss, the beast will kill Lydia, and likely both of us as well.”

“Naturally. Yet, it is no risk for me, because sooner or later those soldiers will discover this tunnel, and Lydia and I will be dead for certain. It’s only your life they will spare, that the beast will not.”

When Wickham put it that way, it left Elizabeth with no choice but to agree.

Lydia grasped Wickham’s plan with very few words from him being necessary. Taking the candle from Elizabeth, Lydia walked to the end of the chamber in the shadows. When she turned again, the candle below her face barely trembled, and revealed blazing eyes fixed on the creature beyond the bars.

Elizabeth realised that she couldn’t easily reach the rope as she stood on tiptoe to try and reach it.

“Lydia, go crouch and have Elizabeth climb your back,” Wickham said. “Elizabeth, try to reach the rope’s end. See where it dangles there? When you grab it, let Lydia rush back and try balance on your toes.”

At first they nearly toppled over. Then they used the pillar itself to support them, and after a little more groping, Elizabeth grasped the rope. “Lydia, I am going to brace my legs against the pillar; you return to the other side now. Wickham, are you ready, sir?”

“As ready as I will ever be.”

“If the beast passes you, then surely it’s the end of us.”

“I _know_ that. And it will not pass.”

Elizabeth wrapped both her legs around the pillar, as she felt Lydia crawl away. As if climbing down a tree, she moved her legs lower, tugging the rope with all of her strength, using all of her body weight.

At first nothing happened, then something yielded, and the gate rose with a shudder. Elizabeth continued tugging, and unable to see the effect, called out “Is it high yet?”

There was a pause before Wickham’s voice came back. “The creature stares our way and nothing now between us.”

Twisting, Elizabeth looked around the pillar in time to see the beast leap forward. Wickham’s face, caught in moonlight, looked fearful as he swung his sword, but too late, and the creature was past him and moving unerringly towards Lydia.

Lydia’s eyes grew large, but she did not drop the candle. Instead she moved aside, almost as if out of politeness, to let the beast pass.

And to Elizabeth’s surprise, the creature did just that, running on into the blackness of the tunnel out of which not long ago they had all emerged.

Lydia, candle held before her, came over to Wickham, and together they stared down at the ground in fascination.

Elizabeth let the gate fall, and went to what the two of them were staring at.

“Didn’t the beast run into the tunnel?” she asked. No one responded.

As Elizabeth came towards them, Wickham and Lydia both started as though shaken from a trance. Then they moved aside and Elizabeth saw the beast’s head in the moonlight.

Wickham had in fact not missed, and had severed the creature’s head clean from its body.

“The jaws will not cease,” Wickham said in a perturbed tone. “I’ve a mind to take my sword to it again, yet in my country, that would be a desecration, bringing more evil upon us. Yet I wish it would cease moving.”

Indeed it was hard to believe the severed head was not a living thing. It lay on its side, the one visible eye gleaming like a sea creature. The jaws moved rhythmically with a strange energy, so that the tongue, flopping amidst the teeth, appeared to stir with life.

“Some of it ran into the tunnel, the body,” Lydia said. “And here is its head. Perhaps the rest will be back.”

“Now we must hurry on, and with caution too, for who knows what occurs above us, or even if a second beast awaits beyond that chamber,” Wickham said. The beast had clearly disturbed him, because all of his previous bravado and swagger was now gone. He pulled the rope down again, and Lydia and Elizabeth crossed to the other side, holding the gate open with all their strength as Wickham let go of the rope and hastily crawled underneath the gate, as the sisters could together manage to only hold it a few feet above ground.

The second chamber of the mausoleum showed clear signs of having served as the beast’s lair: amidst the ancient bones were fresher carcasses of sheep and deer, as well as other dark, foul-smelling shapes they could not identify. Then they were once more walking stooped and short of breath along a winding passage. They encountered no more beasts, and eventually they heard birdsong. A patch of light appeared in the distance, and then they came out into the forest, the early dawn all around them.

In a kind of daze, Elizabeth came upon a cluster of roots rising between two large trees, and taking Lydia’s hand, helped her sit down on it.

At first Lydia was too short of breath to speak, but after a moment she looked up, saying “I’m thankful we’re all well and that evil tunnel’s behind us. Wickham, you are my hero!!! I have never seen anyone so brave!” Lydia sighed contentedly. “We’re safe for now, come sit beside me and let’s watch the stars fade.”

Wickham indeed plopped down next to Lydia, but his expression made clear that he was in no frame of mind to watch the sky. Wickham seemed to have aged years in a matter of hours, and looked utterly shaken and shocked. Looking about in the half-light, Elizabeth spotted Wickham’s figure nearby, silhouetted against the dawn, head bowed, a hand on a tree trunk to steady him while he regained his breath. Making it safely out of the tunnel seemed to have put him in a daze.

“We’re _safe,_ ” Lydia emphasized, looking from Wickham to Elizabeth. “Look, the monastery is behind us!”

Elizabeth followed Lydia’s pointing, and realised that indeed, they were now in the forest behind the monastery, which she could see in the distance.

“Why are you both so glum?”

Wickham mumbled something, so incoherent that it may have been a language unknown to mankind.

Elizabeth tried to speak, tried to check Lydia’s exuberance, but she couldn’t. Instead, Elizabeth found herself crying.

At the tears, Lydia seemed to realise something, becoming more sober. “Oh, I forgot…Darcy…do you think…is he dead, do you think?”

She had failed him, Elizabeth thought. She had totally, completely failed Darcy. In a battle, there was no time for elaborate exchanges of information. A swift look, a wave of a hand, a barked word over the noise: that was all true warriors needed to convey their wishes to one another. It had been in such a spirit that Darcy had made his thoughts clear to her, about the history of the monastery, the secret purpose of the tower, the barn, intimated to her the purpose of all that woodcutting…and Elizabeth had let him down utterly.

She should have fought with Wickham, or convinced him otherwise from escaping. They shouldn’t have selfishly run away, leaving Darcy to battle all the soldiers and save them.

“We have to go back,” Elizabeth declared.

That snapped Wickham to attention. _“What?”_

Lydia blinked rapidly. “I’m not going back to that awful place! And surely, going back we hurry to nothing but grave danger, and Darcy by now killed or captured. He saved us. I am sorry to see him die, because he saved my life many times, but to go back _there_ is craziness. Let us tell a prayer for him, and head to a village somewhere, anywhere.”

“Then _I_ will go back to the monastery. Also, I’m the one person here no one wanted to kill. Someone has to go back and see about Darcy, and it shall be me.”

I failed him once, Elizabeth thought, and shall not do so a second time.


	15. The Cooper's Hut

“This is absolute madness,” Wickham declared. “If Darcy is alive, he will kill me for letting either of you back there.”

“And he may be captured, needing our help with every passing moment!”

Wickham scoffed. “Madam, let us be very clear. Brennus has no need for Darcy alive; captured is not an option that exists. Darcy is either alive as a free man, or he is dead. There is no 'captured'.”

Elizabeth winced at his harsh words.

“There is also the matter of practicality,” Wickham continued. “Trekking back up there for you is easily the task of several hours. If Darcy is alive, he is not staying at the monastery for half a day, awaiting your rescue.”

“She could try walking back through the tunnel,” Lydia said dubiously.

Even Elizabeth saw the futility of that. “It took us hours walking through it, Lydia, and besides, I will not be able to get that trapdoor open on my own.”

“Not to mention that headless beast who may or may not be dead,” Wickham added. “Let us be sensible about this. If Darcy is alive, he is not going to be at the monastery by the time any of us make it back up there. You both entered the monastery during the day, through the front gate. Was there any place on your way where Darcy could possibly be hiding out right now?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “He said that the monastery was a fort in a life before this; once at the monastery Darcy showed me how the path there turned back and forth as though eager to drain our strength, and he showed me the battlements running above those same paths. It seems unlikely that Darcy would risk hiding out anywhere on that path. As well, we did not encounter any place that may have been suitable for a hideout. Oh!” she added as she remembered, “we also explored a path to the right of the monastery…it seems that it led to a hilltop that the monks use to expose themselves to the elements as a means of flagellation.”

“So if any resting place exists, it would be behind the monastery,” Wickham said, “as the other side is a steep drop down to the river.” He walked, peering through the trees, and looking about. “We shall do this: I will take Lydia and cross the river, as it is undoubtedly safer on that side. You will not head back to the monastery, but will walk through the woods behind the monastery and see if you encounter anything that will give you any signs about Darcy. We will have an assignment to meet across the river, further on down where there is a bridge. If Darcy is alive, he will find a way for our two parties to join. If you cannot find him, do not waste more than a day. By nightfall, it is time for you to give up your search. You are not in danger, so do not hide yourself, making it harder for me to find you. Walk along the river until you find the bridge, and once there, cross if you can, stay still if you cannot. I will come get you.”

* * *

In the absence of any better ideas, Elizabeth followed Wickham’s advice. She walked through the woods, trying to think how best to go about her task. The morning air was chilly, and she tried to not move too far from the sounds of the river, lest that meant she was moving too close to the monastery. Sometimes, pushing through the woods, she thought herself lost, but then in places the trees would thin and she would see the outline of the monastery against the pale sky and know that she was in her intended direction.

Elizabeth walked in this manner for some time, throat parched and legs aching, finding nothing and no one that could give her any clue as to what had happened to Darcy. Elizabeth felt a great emptiness opening within her, and had to blink back tears and the feeling of hopelessness that threatened to envelope her.

She tried to push her feelings aside for another moment, and pressed further. It wasn’t lost on her that she may not succeed in finding Darcy at all, _and_ she could now quite likely also lose Lydia. Elizabeth couldn’t even begin to think of the colossal betrayal of her father yet. Even now, she was hoping that Wickham was wrong in his estimation of things.

With all these thoughts swirling about her head, Elizabeth paused, leaning against a tree to catch her breath. She couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t walking around in circles, and negative thoughts were threatening to overwhelm her. She needed a new plan, Elizabeth thought.

But before she contemplated anything further, bony hands grasped her shoulders from behind. Too shocked to scream, Elizabeth twisted around to find Father Ninian, the silent monk, staring into her eyes. He looked exhausted, as if, like her, he had not had a wink of sleep.

Elizabeth was so relieved to find a friendly face, and she could not forget the father’s help in aiding their escape.

“Father, there are not words of thanks enough in this world to express my gratitude for your help. It is because of you that my sister lives to see another day. I regret being such a burden, but do you know anything of Darcy? The shepherd that was with us? Does he lie there?” she asked, pointing to the monastery.

The silent monk appeared to understand, and shook his head emphatically. Father Ninian raised a finger to his lips in the familiar manner, and stared warningly into Elizabeth’s face. Then, glancing furtively around him, Father Ninian tugged Elizabeth away from the forest, towards the river. Having little choice in the matter, Elizabeth dutifully obeyed the monk.

Even though it was chilly, Elizabeth realised that the sun was well overhead; she estimated that it was at least noon. After a period of walking in silence, they paused. Father Ninian motioned Elizabeth to stay where she was, while he disappeared back into the woods. Elizabeth had little concept of how much time passed, and dozed off until some rustling woke her.

A young, thin, sickly-looking Pict monk emerged from the woods with Father Ninian. Elizabeth had no concept of the young monk’s language, but he spoke Brittonic well enough for them to converse.

“I’ve been chosen to be your guide,” he said triumphantly, in Elizabeth’s language. “Father Ninian says we’re to go quietly and unseen. Be brave, cousin, you’ll be at your beloved’s side before long.”

Elizabeth turned to Father Ninian. She wanted to embrace him, but worried about giving offence. Instead, she touched his feet in what she hoped would be construed as a gesture of respect. “Good Father, I owe you my, and my sister’s life. I thank you for all your help, then and now. Please take care of yourself, and Father Jonus too. I hope that a day will come when I am able to properly give my thanks to what my family owes you.”

Father Ninian bowed slightly, and touched her head in what seemed like a blessing. He then turned around and walked back the way he came.

For the first part of the journey by the river, the young monk spoke with relish, answering all her questions.

“Have you seen Darcy? The shepherd? Do you know how bad his wounds are, and if they are mortal?”

“He’s at the cooper’s cottage; I am taking to him some ointment as instructed by Father Jonus, and there’s none wiser than him. I have not seen your shepherd yet, but I do not believe that his wounds are mortal; Father Jonus would send herbs, not ointment if that was the case.”

Elizabeth was almost giddy with relief. She would soon be reunited with Darcy, and there was reason to believe that he was not so badly hurt!

“Father Ninian came out to see if you and your sister made good your escape, and instead, found the shepherd wandering down the hillside with his mare while it was still dark. He was dazed and wounded, but still alive, even as the rest of us watched the blazing tower and prayed for the trapped men inside. The few of us who know this news have been counselled by Father Jonus to keep it a solemn secret, even from the abbot himself. For he fears if the news gets further, Lord Brennus will send out more soldiers seeking vengeance. You’d do well not to whisper a word of it to anyone, at least not until you’re both far from this country.”

Elizabeth nodded furiously.

“The best of men is Father Jonus, and still our wisest, even after what the birds have done to him.”

Elizabeth wholeheartedly agreed.

“It was foolish of you to come back as you did, and after you’d made good your escape. Father Jonus will be angry to hear of it. But I suppose that is to be expected when two people love each other – you must understand that we don’t see young couples at the monastery, at least not since I have been here. And, what luck for you, here you are, safely away again, and no one’s the wiser about your escape.”

It occurred to Elizabeth that the young monk was under a misapprehension about the nature of the relationship between herself and Darcy, but Elizabeth chose not to correct him.

“But what an affair this is! Is your beloved always so quarrelsome? Or is it one of the soldiers made some fierce insult to him in passing? Perhaps once you reach his bedside, cousin, you’ll ask him how it all began, for none of us can make head or tail of it. Whatever purpose brought the soldiers to see the abbot, they seemed to soon forget and turning into wild men, set about trying to extract payment from your shepherd.

I myself woke at the sounds of the shouting, even though my own chamber’s far from the courtyard. I ran there in alarm, only to stand helpless alongside my fellow monks, watching in horror all that unfolded. Your beloved, they soon told me, had run into the ancient tower to escape the wrath of the soldiers, and though they rushed in after him with a mind to tear him limb from limb, it seems he began to fight them as best he knew. And a surprising match he seemed to be, even though they were thirty or more and he just one Saxon shepherd. We watched expecting any moment to see his bloody remains brought out, and instead it’s soldier after soldier running from that tower in panic, or staggering out carrying wounded comrades. We could hardly believe our eyes! We were praying for the quarrel soon to end, for whatever the original insult, such violence’s surely uncalled for. Yet it went on and on, and then cousin, the dreadful accident occurred. Who knows it wasn’t God himself, frowning on so black a quarrel within his holy buildings, pointed a finger and struck them with fire? More likely it was one of the soldiers running back and forth with torches tripped and made his great error. The horror of it! Suddenly the tower was ablaze! And who’d think an old damp tower could offer so much kindling? Yet blaze it did and Lord Brennus’ men together with your beloved caught within. They’d have done better forgetting their quarrel at once and running out as fast as they could, but I fancy they thought instead to fight the flames, and saw only too late the fires engulfing them. An accident of true ghastliness, and the few who came out did so just to die twisting horribly on the ground. Yet miracle of miracles, cousin, your beloved turns out escaped! You are truly a lucky woman, having seen your sister and beloved both saved in impossible circumstances.”

Soon, the young monk changed their course and left the riverside to enter the trees, and immediately upon doing so, he fell silent. Elizabeth first wondered if she had in some way offended her guide. It then struck her that it was more likely the monk was simply anxious not to attract the attention of whatever lurked in these woods; amidst the pleasant birdsong, there had also been some strange hissings and murmurs. Seeing what she had seen of the beast inside the tunnel, Elizabeth shared the sentiment. For a long while, they walked like this, until the young monk stopped ahead of her. He was holding back blackthorn with a stick. He spoke at last, in a hushed voice. “A short cut. We’ll soon see the roof of the cooper’s cottage.”

As they came out of the woods to where the land swept down into the receding fog, Elizabeth could still hear movement and hissing in the nearby bracken.

The cooper’s hut appeared to be built inside a deep ditch, its thatch roof so close to the earth that Elizabeth, lowering her head to pass under it, felt she was climbing into a hole. She had been prepared for the darkness, but the stifling warmth - and the thick woodsmoke - took her aback, and she announced her arrival with a fit of coughing.

Darcy’s voice came out of the darkness beyond the smouldering fire.

“I’m pleased to see you safe, Princess.”


	16. At This Moment

Despite the darkness, Elizabeth was able to discern Darcy’s form on a bed of turf.

“Are you badly hurt?” she asked tentatively. Not wanting to disrupt anything in the limited space, she started to move slowly towards the fire. She heard the Pict leave them silently.

As Darcy sat up, slowly moving into the glow, Elizabeth saw that his face, neck and shoulders were covered in perspiration. Yet the hands that reached to the fire were trembling as if from cold.

“The wounds are trivial. But they brought with them this fever. I was aware of the smoke, it was strong even as I climbed down, but then it tickled my chest, making it hard not to cough loudly. The fever was worse earlier, and I’ve little memory of coming here. The good monks say they tied me to the horse’s back. What of you, Elizabeth? You bear no wounds, I trust? I am so relieved to see you safe, I cannot find words to express myself.”

Elizabeth was able to make her way to the bed of turf, and knelt beside it. She reached out to hold Darcy’s hands. “I’m perfectly well, yet am here before you in shame. I’m a poor comrade to you, sleeping while you fought. I should have…I’m sorry I did not help you.”

Darcy carefully brought both feet to the earth floor, Elizabeth saw then how his left arm was bound tightly in sacking, and that one side of his face had a spreading bruise that partially closed one eye. He let go of one of her hands, and reached down with his free hand and tossed a log onto the flames.

“That’s probably a log you had chopped earlier,” Elizabeth said sadly.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Darcy said quietly. “I would have killed Wickham in my cold rage, but it was you that stayed my hand. And it was thanks to him that we all escaped as we did…it _was_ he that came to you?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“True,” Darcy said, “when I first went into that tower, I wasn’t sure that I could trust Wickham at all, but I had no other choice in the circumstances. When I was at the top of that burning tower and hot smoke was already around me, I had lost all hope and thought that my choices were a long fall to stony ground, or mingle with my enemies as we became ash together. But then I looked down, and there was my own horse, with our wagon of hay hitched to her. Wickham _had_ done as bidden. I thought nothing else, but leapt from that chimney mouth, and our earlier work was well enough done, Princess, for though I plunged through the hay as if it were water, I met nothing to pierce me. After wandering about the hillside, likely rambling delusions in my feverish state, I woke up here to gentle Father Ninian tending to me. The fever must already have taken hold by then, but if the gods favour us, the fever will pass soon.”

“Where will we go then?”

Darcy started, and looked at her questioningly.

“When you are better, of course,” Elizabeth clarified.

“That was not my question.”

Elizabeth looked down. “It is _‘we’_ , of course. You are on your King’s errand to slay Querig…and I will accompany you. Lydia as well, but she has no choice in the matter. She will have to do as I say. " Elizabeth knew that she could have easily stopped there, but she chose to say more so that there was no doubt as to her meaning. "That is…that is...if you will have me…”

“I fear that this fever has taken a hold of both of us. Elizabeth, you know not what you are saying.”

“No, I know _exactly_ what I am saying. Perhaps…perhaps I don’t have your memory. I do not recall as you do. But now, even without my memory of what was, I know what _is_ , and that is that I wish to be by your side. And if that includes having to slay a dragon, all the better, as that dragon holds my memory within her breath. And in my memories, I hold _you.”_

“Elizabeth…are you certain of this?”

“After a very long time, there is clarity in my thoughts. I know where I belong, and that is right here.”

Even with one arm bound in sacking and under the power of a fever, Darcy still had considerable strength left in him. He reached forward and pulled Elizabeth with his free hand over onto the tuft.

“You will be cramped…” Elizabeth started to protest, but fell silent when Darcy pulled her close to him, resting his forehead on her shoulder. He trembled, and she held him closer.

“Princess,” he said eventually. “Suppose the gods allow us to succeed, and we bring down Querig. I’d like you then to promise me something.”

She was sitting so close to him now, his head on her shoulder, her arm around him, so close that her hair ran down his back.

“What is it you ask?”

“Had I stayed by your side, perhaps…perhaps your memories would not have left. Should Querig really die and the mist begin to clear...should your memories return, and with that disappointment that you may have in me…I should have never left you then, no matter my duties. You may look at me and see no longer the man you do now. Promise me this. Promise, Princess, you’ll not forget what you feel in your heart for me at this moment. Promise to keep what you feel for me this moment always in your heart, no matter what you see once the mist’s gone.”

“I’ll promise it, Darcy, now and always.” Holding on to his waist, Elizabeth gently pushed him downward. “Let us rest. A new dawn awaits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's very short, but it ends exactly where it should, and anything else would ruin it.


	17. The River

“Are you sure that you are well enough? Your bruise has only gotten bigger, and your fever just barely left,” Elizabeth had asked him worriedly, before they left the cooper's hut.

“I promised you that once the fever left me, we’d go. We will find Lydia and Wickham, and then we’ll set off towards those eastern hills, where all talk has it Querig has her lair. This nightmare shall soon come to an end.”

As it was, Darcy had little choice in resting and getting better. Wickham had given Elizabeth exactly a day to locate him; moreover, from Elizabeth’s description of Lydia in the tunnel, it was likely that the girl was further devolving, especially within these hills. Darcy had no faith that Wickham would be able to corral her, or that he would even try.

Reluctantly, knowing that he would not locate Wickham in the given time in the state he was in, Darcy let his horse go, with whispered instructions and many a pat. His horse, if she was able to find Wickham, would be sign enough for the other man to hold his position until Darcy made it there. And if the worst happened, Darcy knew enough calls of the wild to summon the horse back. She was a war horse, and had performed admirably with Steffa Ivor, but the closer they came to Querig, the more nervous Darcy became. Nothing was predictable anymore.

He hadn’t wanted to leave the cooper’s hut at all. To be with Elizabeth, alone, finally, was a dream that he had actually stopped dreaming for some time. The open admittance of feelings, the ability to finally let himself be happy was an emotion Darcy had not felt for years.

But the happiness was short-lived; there was still a long journey for them to make, and a fearful foe to defeat.

Darcy was scared. As close as he felt to Elizabeth, and though he had made her promise him the impossible, Darcy had been down this road before. He knew how brittle Elizabeth’s memory was. Also, even if he successfully slayed Querig, there was nothing to say that Elizabeth would go on wanting him with a recovered memory. These fleeting moments was all he could expect.

They also still had not accounted for Sir Bennet. Darcy understood why Elizabeth avoided the subject, but they would have to face it sooner or later. Sir Bennet had tried to have Darcy killed, as well as Lydia. At some point, Elizabeth was going to have to address the issue of her murderous, traitorous father.

And what, Darcy wondered, would Sir Bennet do to try to dissuade Elizabeth from her chosen path?

Darcy could feel her leaning on him as they walked; her shivering, which had started a while back, had grown steadily worse. He longed for a patch of sun to warm Elizabeth, but though the opposite bank was often bathed in light, their side of the river remained stubbornly shaded and cold.

He had been about to suggest another rest when at last they spotted the roof behind the willows, jutting out into the water. It took some time to negotiate the muddy slope down to the boathouse, and when they stepped under its low arch, the near darkness and the proximity of the lapping water seemed only to make Elizabeth shiver more. They moved further inside, over damp wooden boards, and saw beyond the roof’s overhang tall grass, rushes, and an expanse of the river. Then a man’s figure rose from the shadows to their left, saying “Who might you be, friends?”

“Good day, sir,” Darcy said. “We’re sorry if we brought you from your sleep. We’re just two weary travellers wishing to go downriver to…” Only midsentence did Darcy realise how easily he would raise suspicions if he didn’t manage a suitable disguise for both of them. “…to my wife sister’s village,” he said. “We had sought refuge at the monastery after seeking some herbs from Father Jonus, but there was some fight there between other travellers and Lord Brennus’ soldiers, and we were thus compelled to make a hasty exit.” Darcy had the mild satisfaction of knowing that he hadn’t completely lied.

A broad, bearded man of middle years, clad in layers of animal skins, emerged into the light and scrutinised them. Eventually he asked, not unkindly, “Is your wife still unwell? That is why you sought Father Jonus.”

“She’s only tired now, sir, but unable to walk the remaining way, or cross the river. We hoped you might spare a barge or small boat to carry us. I can see, sir, you have but one boat now in the water. I can at least promise you safe passage for any cargo you’d entrust should you allow us to use it.”

The boatkeeper looked out at the boat rocking gently under the roof, then back at Darcy. “It’ll be a while yet, friend, till this boat goes downstream, for I’m waiting for my companion to return with barley to fill it. But I see you’re both weary. So let me make this suggestion. Look there, friends. You see those baskets.”

“Baskets, sir?” Darcy asked blankly

“They may look flimsy, but float well and will bear your weight, though you’ll have to go one in each. We’re accustomed to filling them with full sacks of corn, or even at times a slaughtered pig, and tethered behind a boat they’ll travel even a rough river without jeopardy. And today, as you see, the water’s steady, so you’ll travel without worry.”

Elizabeth stirred now. “Darcy,” she whispered, “let’s not separate. Let’s go together on foot, slow though it may be.”

“Walking’s beyond us now, Princess. We both need warmth and food, and this river will carry us swiftly to our journey’s end. Your sister must be anxious now, waiting for us.” Darcy turned to the boatkeeper. “You’re kind, sir. But have you no basket large enough for the two of us?”

“You must go one to each basket friends, or else fear drowning. But I’ll gladly tether two together so you’ll go almost as good as one. When you see the lower boathouse, your journey will be over and I’ll ask you to leave the baskets there well tied.”

Darcy frowned. “I am not comfortable with us being separated, truly. Call it my old-fashioned nature.”

“Friend, you both will surely drown in one basket together,” the boatkeeper said. He looked Elizabeth up and down. “And your wife will not make it much farther on foot either.”

“Maybe it will not be so bad,” Elizabeth said. “This good man says he’ll truss our two baskets together, and it’ll be as good as we’re arm in arm.” Then turning to the boatkeeper, she said “I’m grateful to you, sir. We’ll do as you suggest. Please tie the baskets tightly, so there’s no chance a swift tide will move us apart.”

“The danger isn’t the river’s speed, my lady, but its slowness. It’s easy to get caught in the weeds near the bank and move no further. Yet I’ll lend you a strong staff to push with, so you’ll have little to fear.”

As the boatkeeper went to the edge of his jetty and began to busy himself with rope, Darcy turned to Elizabeth. “Princess, I am worried. The tide may part us, never mind what this man tells us.”

“I thought that as well. But you are right; I am in no state to walk any farther, and fear rises in me with every spent moment about the state Lydia must be in.”

Then the boatkeeper was calling them, and they stepped carefully down the little stones to where he was steadying with a long pole two baskets bobbing in the water. “They’re well lined with hide,” he said. “You’ll hardly feel the river’s cold.”

Darcy kept both hands on Elizabeth until she had safely lowered herself into the first basket.

“Don’t try and rise, Princess, or you’ll endanger the vessel. I’m getting in right beside you. Look, this good man’s fastened us tight together.”

Elizabeth appeared reassured, and lay down in the basket like a child going to sleep.

“Good sir,” Darcy said. “See how my wife trembles from the cold. Is there something you might lend to cover her?”

The boatkeeper too was looking at Elizabeth, who had now curled up on her side and closed her eyes. Suddenly he removed one of the furs he was wearing, and bending forward, laid it on top of her. She seemed not to notice - her eyes remained closed - so it was Darcy who thanked him.

“Welcome, friend. Leave everything at the lower boathouse for me.”

The man pushed them into the tide with his pole. “Sit low and keep the staff handy for the weeds.”

It was bitingly cold on the river. Broken ice drifted here and there in sheets, but their baskets moved past them with ease, sometimes bumping gently one against the other. The baskets were shaped almost like boats, with a bow and stern, but had a tendency to rotate, so that at times Darcy found himself gazing back up the river to the boathouse still visible on the bank.

As the boatkeeper had promised, the river moved at an easy pace. Even so, Darcy found himself glancing continuously over at Elizabeth’s basket, which appeared to be filled entirely by the animal skin, with only a small portion of her hair visible to betray her presence.

Darcy was sick with foreboding and ill-feeling. His own body still ached, and the bruise over his eye was only partially healing, making it painful to keep both eye open. And the more he thought of Wickham, Lydia, Sir Bennet, and Querig, the wearier he felt. As well, he was almost ready to give up on his King’s mission, such was his fear about Elizabeth’s memory.

He kept looking over at her, and once he called out “We’ll be there in no time, Princess,” and when there was no response, reached over to tug her basket closer.

“Elizabeth, are you sleeping?”

“Darcy, are you still there?”

“Of course I’m still here.”

“I thought maybe you’d left me again.”

“Why would I leave you, Princess? And the man’s tied our vessels so carefully together.”

“I don’t know if it’s a thing dreamt or remembered. But I saw myself just then, standing in a field in the dead of night. It was long ago and I had tight around me a cloak of badger hides you made once as a tender gift to me. I was standing like that, and I was watching a caterpillar crawling, and asking why a caterpillar wouldn’t be asleep so late at night.”

“Never mind caterpillars, what were you doing yourself awake in a field in the pit of the night?”

“I think I was standing that way because you’d gone and left me, Darcy. Maybe this fur the man’s put over me reminds me of that one then, for I was holding it to myself while I stood there, the one you’d made for me from badger skins. I was watching the caterpillar and asking why it didn’t sleep and if a creature like that even knew night from day. Yet I believe the reason was that you’d gone away, Darcy. You had told me you would come back for me, but I think I never wanted you to leave.”

“I am sorry I left you. I regret it every day.”

“Are you still there, Darcy?”

“Of course I’m here, and the boathouse long out of sight now. I think you have a fever, brought on by this cold and all the chaos of the last few days. I wish the sun would rise with less patience.”

“You’re right, it’s cold here, even under this rug.”

“I’d warm you in my arms but the river won’t allow it.”

“You’re drifting further away, Darcy. I can hardly hear you.”

“I’m here beside you, Elizabeth. Look, I see something before us in the water, maybe a boat stuck in the reeds.” He had been sitting low in his basket, but now shifted carefully into a crouching posture, holding the rim to either side. “I see it better now. A small rowing boat, stuck in the reeds where the bank turns ahead. It’s in our path and we’ll have to take care or we’ll be stuck the same way.”

“Darcy, please be careful.”

“I shall, always. But let me take this staff and keep us clear of the rushes.”

The baskets were moving ever more slowly now, pulling inwards towards the sludge-like water where the bank made its turn. Thrusting the staff into the water, Darcy found he could touch the bottom easily, but when he tried to push off back into the tide, the river floor sucked at the stick, allowing him no purchase. He could see too, in the light breaking over the long-grassed fields, how weeds had woven thickly around both baskets, as though to bind them further to this stagnant spot. The boat was almost before them, and as they drifted lethargically towards it, Darcy held out the staff to touch against its stern and brought them to a halt.

“Is it the other boathouse?”

“Not yet.” Darcy glanced over to that part of the river still gliding downstream. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. We’re caught in the reeds. But here’s a rowing boat before us, and if it’s worthy, we’ll use it ourselves to complete the journey.” Pushing the staff once more into the water, Darcy manoeuvred them slowly to a position alongside the vessel.

From their low vantage point, the boat loomed large, and Darcy could see in fine detail the damaged, coarsened wood, and the underside of the gunwale, where a row of tiny icicles hung like candlewax.

Planting the staff in the water, he now rose carefully to his full height within his basket and peered into the boat. The bow end was bathed in an orange light and it took him a moment to see that the pile of rags heaped there on the boards was in fact an elderly woman. The unusual nature of her garment – a patchwork of numerous small dark rags - and the sooty grime smeared over her face had momentarily deceived him. Moreover, she was seated in a peculiar posture, her head tilted heavily to one side, so that it was almost touching the boat’s floor.

“Help me, stranger,” she said quietly, not altering her posture.

“Are you sick, mistress?”

“My arm won’t obey me, or I’d by now be up and taken the oar. Help me, stranger.”

“Who do you speak to, Darcy?” Elizabeth’s voice came from behind him. “Take care it’s not some demon.”

“It’s just a poor woman of many years, injured in her boat.”

“Don’t forget me, Darcy.”

“Forget you? Why would I ever forget you, princess?”

“This fog makes us forget so much. I forgot you. Why should it not make you forget me?”

“Such a thing can’t ever happen, Princess. Now I must help this poor woman, and perhaps with luck we’ll all three use her boat to journey downstream.”

“Stranger, I hear what you say. You’ll be most welcome to share my boat. But help me now for I’m fallen and hurt.”

“Darcy, don’t forget me, please.”

“I’m just stepping onto this boat beside us, Elizabeth. I must attend to this poor stranger.”

The cold had stiffened his limbs, and he almost lost his balance as he climbed into the larger vessel. But he steadied himself, then looked around him.

The boat seemed simple and sturdy, with no obvious signs of leakage. There was cargo piled near the stern, but Darcy paid this little attention, for the woman was saying something again. He could see how her gaze was fixed with some intensity on his feet, so much so that he could not help looking down at them himself. Noticing nothing remarkable, he continued towards her, stepping carefully over the boat’s bracing.

“Stranger. I see you’re hurt, but you’ve strength left. Show them a fierce face. A fierce face to make them flee.”

“Come, mistress. Are you able to sit up?” He had said this for he was troubled by her strange posture; her loose grey hair was hanging down and touching the damp boards. “Here, I’ll help you. Try to sit higher.”

As he leant forward and touched her, a rusted knife she had been holding fell from her grasp onto the boards. In the same instant, some small creature scampered out from her rags and away into the shadows.

“Do the rats bother you, mistress?”

“They’re over there, stranger. Show them a fierce face, I say.”

It now occurred to him she had not been staring at his feet, but beyond him, to something at the back of the boat. He turned, but the low sun dazzled him and he could not discern clearly whatever was moving there.

“Are they rats, mistress?”

“They fear you, stranger. They feared me too for a little while, but they sapped me little by little as they will. Had you not come they’d be covering me even now.”

“Wait a moment, mistress.”

He stepped towards the stern, a hand raised against the low sun, and gazed down at the objects piled in the shadows. He could make out tangled nets, a soaked-through blanket left in a heap, a longhandled tool, like a hoe, lying across it. And there was a wooden, lidless box, the sort fishermen used to keep fresh the dying fish they had caught. But when he peered into it, he saw not fish but skinned rabbits, a considerable number of them, pressed so closely one against the other their tiny limbs appeared to be locked together.

Then, as he watched, the whole mass of sinews, elbows and ankles began to shift. Darcy took a step back even as he saw an eye open, and then another. A sound made him turn, and he saw at the other end of the boat, still bathed in orange light, the old woman slumped against the bow with pixies - too many to count - swarming over her. At first glance she looked contented, as if being smothered in affection, while the small, scrawny creatures ran through her rags and over her face and shoulders. And now there came more and more out of the river, climbing over the rim of the boat.

Darcy reached down for the long-handled tool before him, but he too had become enveloped by a sense of tranquillity, and he found himself extracting the pole from the tangled netting in a strangely leisurely manner. He knew more and more creatures were rising from the water…how many might have boarded now? Thirty? Sixty?

Their collective voices seemed to him to resemble the sound of children playing in the distance. He had the presence of mind to raise the long tool and bring it crashing down onto the tiny knuckles and knees mounting the side of the boat. Then a second swing, this time towards the box with the skinned rabbits from which more pixies were running out.

The last blow of the hoe had had some effect, for several creatures had fallen back into the water, and then another blow had sent two, even three, flying through the air, and the old woman was a stranger, what obligation did he have to her before Elizabeth? Darcy wanted to leave. But there she was, the strange woman, hardly visible now beneath the writhing creatures, and Darcy crossed the length of the boat, leaving the hoe for his sword, and made another arc in the air to sweep off as many as possible without injury to the stranger.

Yet how they clung on! And now they even dared to speak to him…or was that the old woman herself from beneath them?

“Leave her, stranger. Leave her to us. Leave her, stranger.”

Darcy swung his sword again, and it moved as though the air were thick water, but found its mark, scattering several creatures even as more arrived.

“Leave her to us, stranger,” the old woman said again, and only this time did it occur to him, with a stab of fear that seemed bottomless, that the speaker was talking not of the dying stranger before him but of Elizabeth.


	18. Choices

Turning to Elizabeth’s basket in the reeds, Darcy saw the waters around it alive with limbs and shoulders. His own basket was nearly capsizing from the pull of the creatures trying to climb in, preserved only by the ballast of those already inside. But they were boarding his basket only to gain access to its neighbour. He could see other creatures massing over the animal skin covering Elizabeth.

Darcy’s blood ran cold. Uttering a cry, he climbed the side of the boat and let himself fall into the water. It was much deeper than he had anticipated, coming above his waist; given Darcy’s height, he knew that Elizabeth would surely drown if she fell into the river, especially in the state she was. The shock of the water took his breath only for an instant; he let out a warrior’s bellow that came to him from instinct, and lurched towards the baskets, his sword held high above him.

There was tugging at his clothes and the water felt honey-like, but when he brought the sword down onto his own basket, even though his weapon travelled with frustrating slowness, once it landed, more creatures than he could have suspected tumbled out into the water. The next swing caused even greater destruction, and yet Elizabeth remained an age away, floating complacently even as the creatures rose about her. Creatures were now even hanging from his sword.

Darcy wondered if this was a fever dream, because the unreality of it struck him strongly. Wishing only to be at Elizabeth’s side, Darcy waded through the water, the weeds, the broken bulrushes, the mud tugging at his feet, but Elizabeth remained further away than ever; and stubbornly asleep.

Then came the stranger’s voice again, and even though now, down in the water he could no longer see her, Darcy could picture the old woman with startling clarity in his mind’s eye, slumped on the floor of her boat in the morning sun, the pixies moving freely over her as she uttered the words he could hear “Leave her, stranger. Leave her to us.”

“Curse you,” Darcy muttered under his breath, as he pushed himself forward. “I’ll never, never give her up.”

“A wise man like you, stranger. You’ve known a long time now there’s no hope for you both. How will you bear it, what now lies in wait for her? Do you long for that day you watch your dearest love twist in agony and walk away, with nothing to offer but kind words for her ear? What will you say to her, when she must make a terrible choice for which she will never forgive you? Give her to us and we’ll ease her suffering, as we’ve done for all the others before her.”

“Curse you! I’ll not give her to you!”

“Give her to us and we’ll see she does not suffer. We’ll wash her in the river’s waters, the pain will never reach her, and she’ll be as in a pleasant dream. Why keep her, sir? What can you give her but the agony of an animal in slaughter?”

“I’ll be rid of you. Get off. Get. Off. Her.”

Love that was shrouded with falseness is no love at all, Darcy thought even as he fought his way forward. Sheathing his sword and locking his hands together to make a club, Darcy swung one way then the other, clearing a path in the water as he waded on, till at last he was before Elizabeth, still fast asleep in her basket. The pixies were swarming over the animal skin that covered her, and he began to pull them off one by one, hurling them away.

Choosing to forget and not to face the wound of memory was not the road to happiness; Darcy regretted his previous doubts, fearing that it had brought on this other worldly attack. He realised now that only after facing their wounds with each other, if they could still treat each other with forgiveness and love, would he and Elizabeth find their true love and peace. This was his punishment for being angry at her for not remembering him when they met.

And if now, he was too afraid to fight Querig because of Elizabeth’s memories, he would do no worse by letting her be devoured by these creatures, Darcy told himself.

“Why will you not give her to us? This is no kindness you show her.”

Darcy wanted to carry Elizabeth to the shore, but realised that the distance would cause at least one of them, likely both, to drown. He made a decision that it was more important to get her away from the water than to try and fight the creatures one by one. Thus, he pushed the basket through the icy water without a sense of time, until finally the ground rose up and the basket was sitting on wet mud amidst grass and bulrushes.

Darcy then leant forward and gathered Elizabeth in his arms, lifting her out. Thankfully she came back to wakefulness enough to cling to his neck. He made faltering steps through the water, first onto the bank, then further, into the fields.

Only when the land felt hard and dry beneath them did Darcy lower Elizabeth. There was not a creature in sight anymore. He sat, recovering his breath, and watching as Elizabeth became more awake.

“Darcy, what is this place we’ve come to?”

“Princess, how are you feeling now? We must get away from this spot. I’ll carry you on my back.”

“Darcy, you’re soaked through! Did you fall in the river?”

“This is an evil spot, Princess, and we must leave quickly. I’ll gladly carry you on my back.”

“Must we leave the river behind us? Wouldn’t it help us find Wickham and Lydia faster? The land here looks as high in the mountains as we ever were before.”

Darcy’s heart broke into a hundred pieces as he realised that Elizabeth had no idea what had just happened…she had no idea how close he had come to losing her, or exhausted and sapped of strength, how hard he had still fought for her. He felt his eyes burn.

“Darcy, are you alright?

He looked away, off into the river, and composed himself forcefully. I’ll always fight for her, he told himself, even if she will never know. Even if, with her regained memories she chose other than him, his love for her demanded that he slay Querig, and restore to Elizabeth her memory and with it her sense of identity and purpose.

_“Darcy?”_

“We’ve no choice, Princess. We must get far from here. Come, I’ll have you on my back. Come, Elizabeth, reach for my shoulders.”


	19. Call Of The Wild

Elizabeth had never seen anyone run as fast as Darcy did.

She hadn’t recognised the sound Darcy had heard, until she later saw his horse nearby, agitated. It was the horse’s alarmed neighing that had first pricked Darcy’s ears. She had been able to keep up when he simply increased his speed while climbing, but when Darcy had broken into a sprint, Elizabeth could only watch his fading back as she struggled to keep up.

Elizabeth clambered over the last rocks and pulled herself up over the precipice. The land before her was bare and wind-scarred, rising gradually towards the pale peaks on the horizon. Nearby were patches of heather and mountain grass, but nothing taller than a man’s ankle.

Yet strangely, in the mid-distance was what appeared to be a wood, its lush trees standing calmly against the battling wind.

Though out of breath from the climb, Elizabeth pushed herself forward into a run. Fortunately, she was now not very far from the scene of chaos.

When Elizabeth had them close in her sight, she saw that Wickham had his sword drawn, expression deadly, and was running backwards. Darcy was shouting somewhere ahead of her. In front of Darcy, Lydia ran towards Wickham, not glancing back. Over the howl of the wind, Elizabeth could vaguely make out the grunts and animal growls emanating from Lydia.

Darcy made it to his target before Lydia made it to _hers._ Elizabeth saw Darcy throw himself at Lydia, bringing her down. Dropping his sword, Wickham ran towards the pair, as did Elizabeth.

Breath knocked out of her, Lydia lay on the ground, dazed. Darcy made a high-pitched sound, and his horse trotted to him.

By the time Elizabeth got to them, Darcy’s knee was on Lydia’s back, and Wickham had obtained some rope under a bundle on the horse and was tying Lydia’s hands behind her.

“This rope is easily more useful than my sword,” Wickham commented. “I have never been more relieved to see you, Darcy.”

“Now you see how useful I can be,” Darcy responded dryly.

“Lydia?” Elizabeth gasped. Lydia growled at her, making an incomprehensible hissing sound, and Elizabeth stepped backward in horror and revulsion.

Wickham and Darcy wound the rope around Lydia’s waist as well as her wrists, so that when finally she rose to her feet, she could move forward only against the pull of her leash. Perhaps ten minutes or more passed as Lydia struggled, fighting against her bondage. Finally, she tempered herself, and looked at Darcy with unusually wide eyes. “Warrior, are you no longer my friend? I was only teasing him…” Wickham snorted loudly at that, but Lydia ignored him. “Lizzy, aren’t you going to make them unhand me?”

“I’m still bound to protect you,” Darcy said seriously. “But from here, there must be less teasing and less haste. I think that rope shall stay for a whole longer.”

“Don’t strain against the rope Lydia, and it won’t hurt you,” Elizabeth said, trying to soothe her sister. She couldn’t bear to see Lydia tied up like an animal, but understood without needing to be told that the risk was too much to have Lydia free to attack any one of them.

“We need a plan,” Wickham whispered.

Darcy motioned for silence, and quietly led Lydia towards the woods. The rope obliged Lydia to adopt a gait much like that of a mule. She pulled and pulled, occasionally managing several steps at a run before the rope jerked her to a halt. Elizabeth and Wickham walked behind in silence, with Elizabeth taking the reigns of the horse.

The trees were near now and Darcy tugged Lydia back. “Slowly, Lydia. Courage alone is not enough in this strange grove.” He turned back to speak to Elizabeth and Wickham. “Look there. Pine trees at this height’s no mystery, but aren’t those oaks and elms beside them?”

“Does it matter what trees grow here, or what birds fly these skies? She will soon kill us all!” Wickham hissed angrily.

“Have faith,” Elizabeth said quietly. “We all did not survive so much, and come this far for naught. The more you turn away from her, the more she will come at you.”

“Cold comfort that is,” Wickham responded.

They entered the wood and the ground changed beneath them. There was soft moss, nettles, even ferns. The leaves above them were dense enough to form a ceiling, so that for a while they wandered in a grey half-light. Yet this was no forest, for soon they could see before them a clearing with its circle of open sky above it. It seemed to Elizabeth almost that the intention of the trees was to conceal whatever lay ahead.

Meanwhile, Lydia was still pulling angrily at the rope. “Why are you dallying? You’re just old, tired, and afraid,” she taunted Darcy.

“Look at this place,” Wickham said in awe. “This must be the dragon’s lair before us now.”

“That clearing holds no dragon. We must go past it and beyond, for there’s further journey to be had,” Darcy noted. “Elizabeth, perhaps you should make sure that your sister’s wound is clean.”

“Never mind my wound! Let go the rope! I’ll run on even if you will not!”

This time Darcy released Lydia, and she pushed past thistles and tangled roots. Several times she lost her balance, for trussed as she was, she had no hand to put out to steady herself. But Lydia reached the clearing without injury, with Elizabeth and the two men close behind. They all stopped at its edge to take in the sight before them.

At the centre of the clearing was a pond. It was frozen over, so a man, were he brave or foolish enough, might cross it in twenty or so strides. The smoothness of the ice’s surface was interrupted only near the far side, where the hollowed-out trunk of a dead tree burst up through it. The patch of sky above the pond cast a strange light down on the dead tree, and Elizabeth stared at it for a while, almost expecting it to return to life.

“I say this place is cursed, Darcy,” Wickham said.

“Look at those poor ogres. And they almost as large as the fiends you and Bingley killed the other night,” Lydia said, as if in a trance.

Elizabeth stared at Lydia, and looked back to the pond in confusion. She could make out no ogres.

“What do you speak of, Lydia?”

“Don’t you see them? Look, there! And there!”

“Lydia, you’ve become exhausted,” Elizabeth said, worried. “Let’s rest a while. Even if this is a gloomy spot, it gives us respite from the wind.”

“How can you talk of rest, Lizzy? And isn’t that how those poor creatures met their fate, loitering in this bewitched place too long? Heed their warning!”

“The only warning to heed tells me to make you rest before you drive your own heart to burst,” Darcy interjected gravely, and proceeded to lead Lydia against her will to a tree.

“Do you see any ogres?” Elizabeth hissed at Wickham.

He shook his head, and then shrugged. “She is not in her senses.”

Darcy was trudging around Lydia, circling rope about her chest and shoulders till she could hardly move. “This good tree means you no harm.” Darcy placed a gentle hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Why waste strength this way to uproot it? Calm yourself and rest, while I study more closely this place.”

Lydia now started chanting. At first, it was under breath, then with less inhibition she started singing into the wind a nonsensical rhyme Elizabeth had never heard before.

_“Who knocked over the cup of ale? Who cut off the dragon’s tail? Who left a snake inside the pail? ’Twas your Cousin Adny.”_

“You wouldn’t have a Cousin Adny now, would you?” Wickham asked sardonically.

Elizabeth watched Darcy picking his way through the nettles down to the pond. Reaching the water’s edge, the warrior spent several moments walking slowly back and forth, staring closely at the ground, sometimes crouching down to examine whatever caught his eye. Then he straightened, and for a long time seemed to fall into a reverie, gazing over at the trees on the far side of the pond.

For Elizabeth, Darcy was now a near-silhouette against the frozen water. He made a movement and suddenly the sword was in his hand, the arm poised and unmoving in the air. Then the weapon was returned to its scabbard and Darcy, turning from the water, came walking back towards Elizabeth and Wickham.

“We’re hardly the first visitors here,” he said. “Even this past hour, some party’s come this way, and it’s no she-dragon. Lydia seems somewhat calmer.”

“She has just about lost all her senses,” Wickham stated flatly. “You saw, she was about to kill me back there.”

“She has not turned completely,” Darcy said wearily. “She would have hurt you, but I don’t think she would have been able to kill you…yet.”

“I disagree,” Wickham said. “And even so, she would have still bitten me, and then I too would join her in her path to madness.”

Darcy, apparently not disagreeing, was silent. Elizabeth looked between the two men. “How much longer does she have?”

“It’s the she-dragon’s breath, it now overpowers her. A sure sign we’re close to Querig.”

“We cannot continue like this,” Wickham said. “You and I are deep in enemy land. You are a marked man. Lydia as well, in more than one way. The three of us with a horse, Lydia on a leash ready to attack anyone at any moment.”

“Lydia will not attack us,” Elizabeth argued. “Besides, she has been leashed, and Darcy has her controlled.”

“You are a fool, if you think she is safe, or that we are,” Wickham retorted. “She _lets_ Darcy control her, as any animal shows loyalty to he who saves them from a foe. She would kill you or I in a trice. It is not the blood you shared that now has her loyalty, it is her bestial nature. Darcy, surely you see what she is about. She is a terrific risk.”

“Princess, Wickham is unfortunately correct,” Darcy said, reaching out to hold her hand. “We really cannot continue like this.”

“What?” Elizabeth asked, confused. “You are giving up?”

“No, no, of course not. I gave you my word that I would do all in my power to slay Querig.”

Elizabeth calmed somewhat, but feared what Darcy was about to say. “Then…”

“We four cannot travel like this, together. I cannot keep Lydia safe, keep her from attacking you both, _and_ find Querig. Someone has been here already, likely looking for Lydia or I.”

“Likely men from Brennus. Giving up now is not the worst suggestion,” Wickham said.

“It wasn’t a suggestion!” Elizabeth cried out.

“No one is giving up. But we must split up,” Darcy stated gravely. “You and Wickham, and Lydia and I.”

“But…”

Even Wickham looked disappointed at Darcy’s suggestion. “Split up and do what?”

“The two of you, take the horse. Wickham, you will have to track Querig the best you can.”

“I did _not_ sign up to slay dragons!” Wickham yelled, aghast.

“And yet, here you are,” Darcy said pointedly. “I am well aware that this was not your end game. But as you pointed out, we are deep in enemy land. If Querig is dead, we are of no interest to Brennus. Otherwise, he will hunt you as he hunts me. And I cannot obtain a pardon for you, if I am dead on some hillside. If we are _all_ dead on some hillside.”

“We are stronger together,” Elizabeth said quietly, fighting her tears.

Darcy put his arm around her. “I know that Princess, and I am loathe to separate from you. But I cannot protect all three of you at once. Your surest chance of being alive is to be separated from Lydia. I would not suggest this if I could think of something better.”

“Lizzy! I’ve a confession to make!” Lydia cried out.

All three of them looked at each other in confusion. Finally, Darcy told her to go speak to Lydia “She seems more herself and much calmer. Go see what this is about.”

Visibly unhappy, Wickham shook his head, “Don’t trust her.”

“What is it, Lydia?”

“I can’t go on. When we began to climb, I knew just what to tell Wickham. I fear this cursed pool bewitches me, and maybe bewitches you too, making you content to dally this way and hardly glancing at those drowned ogres. Yet I know there’s a confession I have to make and only wish I could find it.”

“Lydia, what are you struggling to say?”

“I told him I sensed the dragon, but…it’s mother, Lizzy. I promised her I’d save her. You must help me now we’re so near her.”

“ _Mother?_ You say she’s near us now?”

“Yes, Lizzy. But not here. Not this cursed place. She’s been travelling country to country, and it may not be such a bad life. Yet she longs to return to me, help me now face her captors, for it’s long years she’s waited for me.”

It was clear to Elizabeth that even though Lydia was seemingly speaking sense, her mind was truly being taken over by madness. Elizabeth had completely forgotten about Lydia’s talk of their mother. She recalled Wickham telling her in the underground tunnel that when Lydia was hearing their mother’s voice, she was actually being called by Querig.

Elizabeth walked back to the men, who looked grave. Elizabeth repeated her earlier question. “How much longer does she have?”

“I do not know,” Darcy said. “But given her rapid changes between normalcy and the other…I fear that the longer Querig stays alive, the less it seems that you will have your sister back. She has dragon blood in her, now overpowering all else. The desire rises in her blood to seek her own kind. She thinks her mother is Querig, and Querig speaks to Lydia, through their animal instincts and…whatever else surrounds Querig.”

“ _Magic,”_ Wickham said emphatically. “We’re all thinking it; how can any creature call out for its own over miles and miles without some otherworldly help? For all their Christian god and such, these Britons all fall back on the olden ways when real help is needed. Nobody has managed to keep Querig contained in this manner without some magic to help them.”

“Wickham, you are getting distracted. We need to focus on how best to stay alive, and slay Querig. And if I by chance fail, you must be ready to do the deed.”

Elizabeth turned to Darcy. “You shall not fail,” she said simply, but with conviction. She could not fathom a scenario where Darcy could not succeed. “If you think the best way to stay safe and find Querig is to separate…I do not want to, but I understand why we must.”

“Should you fall and I survive, I promise you this. That I shall carry in my heart a hatred of Britons,” Wickham told Darcy quietly, but Elizabeth heard him well enough.

“What do you mean? Which Britons?”

“ _All_ Britons, even those who show me kindness.”

“Wickham, I understand you, but no such promise is necessary. And it is not suitable under the circumstances.”

“ _I_ don’t understand,” Elizabeth said. “Why do you hate Britons? Why must you hate a Briton who shares with you their bread? Or saves you from a foe? _You_ came into _our_ country escaping your own!”

“There are Britons who tempt our respect, even our love,” Wickham said, pointedly looking at Darcy. “But there are greater things than that. It was Britons under Arthur that slaughtered our kind. It was Britons who killed my parents. It was Britons who killed your father, and my protector. If he had lived…we’ve a duty to hate every man, woman and child of their blood. I tend well this hatred in my heart. The hour can be too late for rescue, but be early enough for revenge. And I did not come here out of any love for Britons, but for temporary respite from my own land.”

“Wickham, a hatred of all Britons will not achieve us anything now,” Darcy said, voice heavy with emotion. “Elizabeth – a Briton through and through – has the same goal as our King. To slay Querig and put an end to this madness. Her sister is a victim, like many Saxons who were felled before her. And most of them have no memory of history at all. The only promise I want from you should I fall and you survive, is that you take Elizabeth and Lydia somewhere to safety.”

“We had a peace,” Wickham said. The venom had left his voice, and only sadness and weariness remained. “If they – _she,”_ he said, looking at Elizabeth, “if they do not remember, then someone should _tell_ them. We had a peace. Brokered after years of war, and years of death. The treaty held well. Didn’t all of us, Christian and pagan, sleep more easily for it? Sure, we had battles here and there, some skirmishes, but we were mostly fine. Mostly fine, until Arthur betrayed us. He betrayed the peace, and he betrayed all Saxons the day he broke the peace and slaughtered hundreds of our people, forcing Saxon villages to his control. And these Britons think all is well just because they have forgotten, and because their dragon keeps us checked in fear? A dragon Brennus threatens to use to subjugate more Saxons and invade our kingdom? Your loyalty should be to your King and to your people, Darcy, not to some woman.”

“I do not have to choose between the person I love and my people, Wickham. Elizabeth and I are of one mind. And I protect her and hers, just as I protect all Saxons.” Darcy drew Elizabeth close to him. “Wickham, you shall protect her in my absence. I will give to her my token from our King. If I should fall, and you do not think you can likely slay Querig either, you shall take Elizabeth and Lydia safely to Charles. The token in Elizabeth’s possession will guarantee your pardon.”

Wickham sighed in resignation. “I may hate Britons, but I will not let her come to harm. I understand better than most what is needed for one's own survival. Finish your goodbyes quickly,” he added as he sauntered off.

“Darcy, did we have some quarrel earlier? I’ve no memory of anything except being near my wit’s end from cold and want of rest…but you seemed upset as we walked together. I feel something came between us. With Lydia’s sudden appearance, you and I were not able to speak.”

“I’d no intention to hold myself away from you, Princess. Forgive me. We had some trouble with pixies that worried me. Trust me, it’s best forgotten.”

“Darcy, tell me. If the she-dragon’s really slain and the fog starts to clear, Darcy, do you ever fear what will then be revealed to us? Is there a part of you that fears the fog’s fading?”

“Perhaps, Elizabeth. Perhaps it’s always been so. I left you during a bad time, out of duty to my people. I fear most that you will remember the devastation you felt, and not forgive my leaving. I fear what I do not know and cannot control.” For a moment, he looked lost and bewildered, like a young boy and not a world-weary warrior.

“I remember a night long ago. When you were gone, leaving me lonely, wondering to myself if you’d ever come back to me. The night as dark as any, and there I was, alone, afraid that you were gone and would find another fairer and beautiful. But those are fears of a different lifetime. We have been through too much in the last several days for me to ever doubt your fidelity to me, or to question your loyalties, no matter what memories are returned to me.”

Darcy said nothing to this at first. Then he turned to look at her. When Darcy finally found his voice, it came out as no more than a whisper. “It would be the saddest thing to me, Princess. To walk separately from you, when the ground will let us go together.”

An overwhelming feeling swept over her, and she saw strange creatures swarming in water, and Darcy…Darcy swinging something through the air…and she heard noise as of children playing in the distance…Darcy was fighting, like the warrior he was with fury in his voice. It was a sword or maybe even a hoe that he kept swinging...

“What is it, Elizabeth? Why look at me like that?”

“I’m just gazing at you in relief and happiness for finding you. I am gazing at you, because I have faith that we will be together again, no matter our troubles.”


	20. Atonement

Petulant, angry, and sullen, Wickham was as unpleasant a travelling companion as Elizabeth could have ever conceived. Gone was his easy charm and endless chatter. He reminded Elizabeth, ironically, of Lydia when she didn’t get her own way.

“I am sorry that you became entangled in all of this,” Elizabeth said, in attempt to mollify Wickham.

“No, you’re not,” Wickham responded dourly. “As if you care about anything other than marrying Darcy and keeping Lydia alive, not necessarily in that order.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I care about slaying Querig, restoring the memory of everyone who lives in these parts, and facing those consequences, whatever they may be.” When she was not greeted with a response, Elizabeth spoke further. “I had a younger sister, Mary. She died in the war. As did my mother. I have some memory of Mary’s death, but none of my mother. Darcy had to remind me of both. Perhaps…when my memory is restored, I hope I shall be able to honour the dead as they deserve. I understand that your family, as Saxons, must have been pagan, but I would be honoured to pay respect to them alongside my own family.”

Wickham looked at her then, with more feeling and less hostility. He spoke softly. “I need to go back. I have to pay my respects to Georgiana. She was a girl, naïve and childish…I never dreamt that she would feel hurt or…it was beyond my imagination. I need this pardon, I need to go back to offer my prayers. I need my Gods to forgive me that sin, that one sin which I never planned but now cannot absolve myself of.”

“I am sorry, Sir, for this burden you carry. I know that you have vowed to hate all – ”

“Look!” Wickham interrupted her. “Is that…a goat?”

The little stone cottage was easy to miss, hidden within a pocket of shadow at the foot of a looming cliff, and even with Wickham pointing at it, Elizabeth first mistook it for the entrance to a settlement dug deep into the mountainside. Only as they came closer did she realise it was an isolated structure, the walls and roof alike built from shards of dark grey rock. Water was falling from high above in a fine thread just in front of the cliffside, to collect in a pool not far from the cottage and trickle away where the land dipped out of view.

A little way before the cottage, just now brightly illuminated by the sun, was a small fenced paddock, the sole occupant of which was a goat. The goat was eating over in its enclosure, a muddy upturned bucket near its feet, but broke off to stare in astonishment at Elizabeth and Wickham.

“Wickham, I believe I see children.”

The children had remained unaware of their approach. A girl and her two younger brothers were standing at the edge of a ditch, their backs to their visitors, preoccupied with something beneath their feet. Once, one of the small boys crouched down to throw something into the ditch, provoking the girl to pull him back by the arm.

“What can they be doing?” Elizabeth wondered aloud.

“Mischief by the look of it, and the youngest of them still small enough to tumble in without meaning to,” Wickham replied. “Are children known to be or do anything _but_ mischief?”

When they had gone past the goat and the children still were unaware of them, Elizabeth called out as gently as she could, “God be with you,” causing all three to spin round in alarm.

Their guilty countenances supported Wickham’s notion that they had been up to no good, but the girl - a head taller than the two boys - recovered quickly and smiled.

“Elders! You’re welcome! We prayed to God only last night to send you and here you’ve come to us! Welcome, welcome!” She came splashing over the marshy grass towards them, her brothers close behind.

“You mistake us,” Wickham said. “My sister and I are just two lost travellers, cold and weary, and not old enough to be your parents, let alone Elders. Would you call your mother or father to allow us to rest beside a fire, and perhaps a morsel to eat?”

“We’re not mistaken, sir! We prayed to the God Jesus last night and now you’ve come! Please, Guests, go inside our house, where a fire’s still burning.”

“But where are your parents?” Elizabeth asked. “Weary as we are, we’d not intrude, and so wait for the lady or master of the house to call us through the door.”

“It’s just us three now, Miss, so you can call me lady of the house! Please go inside and warm yourselves. You’ll find food in the sack hanging from the beam, and there’s wood beside the fire to add. Go inside, Guests, and we’ll not disturb your rest for a while yet, for we must see to the goat.”

“We accept your kindness gratefully,” Wickham said. “But tell us if the nearest village is far from here.”

A shadow crossed the girl’s face, and she exchanged looks with her brothers, now lined up beside her. Then she smiled again and spoke.

Wickham glanced surreptitiously at Elizabeth, making sure she was noting the change in the girl’s expressions.

“We’re very high in the mountains here, Sir. It’s far to any village, so we’d ask you to stay here with us, and the warm fire and food we offer. You must be very weary, and I see how this wind makes you both shiver. So please, no more talk of going away. Go inside and rest, Guests, for we’ve waited for you so long!”

“Darcy mentioned being beset by pixies earlier,” Elizabeth whispered to Wickham. “I am suspicious of their eagerness.”

Wickham nodded languidly, looking about. “What is it so interests you in that ditch there?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Sir! Nothing at all! But here you’re standing in this wind and you are shivering!”

As it happened, Elizabeth was indeed cold, but Wickham had his chest puffed out, standing for all the world as if in a sunny field, and not a cold mountain. He was everything but shivering.

“Won’t you accept our hospitality, and rest yourselves beside our fire? See how even now its smoke rises from the roof!”

“I’ll wager that some mischief draws you to this ditch, and you are all three glancing back the way children do when they think some adult will discover and scold them,” Wickham stated. “Now, you are all three children, and give me no cause to draw my sword. Moreover, I’m somewhat tired and would prefer to not be quarrelling about with children. So let us try this again, and I expect simple and honest answers. What’s become of your people that they leave you alone like this?”

The girl exchanged glances with her brothers, who had taken up positions on either side of her. Then she said, a little hesitantly, “We manage by ourselves, Sir,” and put an arm around each of the boys.

“And what is it down in that ditch draws you so?” Elizabeth asked, far more gentle than Wickham.

“It’s just our goat, mistress. It was once our best goat, but it died.”

“How did your goat come to die, child?” Elizabeth coaxed. “The other there looks well enough.”

The children exchanged more glances, and a decision seemed to pass among them. “Go look if you will,” the girl said, and letting go of her brothers, she stepped to one side.

Elizabeth fell in step beside Wickham as he went towards the ditch. Before they were halfway there, Wickham stopped and said in a whisper, “Let me go alone first.”

“Do you think I never saw a dead goat before?”

“Assuming it to be a goat, and this not some pixie trick. Wait here a moment.”

After giving Wickham some time to observe the ditch, Elizabeth asked “What is it?”

“See if you wish. It’s no sight to raise your spirits. Some poor ogre, I’d suppose, dying a slow death, and maybe these children have foolishly thrown it a goat, thinking it might recover itself with eating.”

Elizabeth walked over. The ditch was as deep as a man’s height. The sun, now shining almost directly into it, should have made it easier to discern what was before her, but instead created confusing shadows. The goat appeared to have been of monstrous proportions, and now lay in several dismembered pieces. Over there, a hind leg; there the neck and head. It took a little longer to identify the soft upturned belly of the animal, because pressed into it was a giant hand emerging from the dark mud. Only then did she see that much of what initially she had taken to be of the dead goat belonged to a second creature entangled with it. That mound there was a shoulder; that a stiffened knee. Then she saw movement and realised the thing in the ditch was still alive.

“Good heavens, it’s not dead!” Even as she spoke, a large hairless head revolved slowly in the slime, a gaping eye moving with it. Then the mud sucked greedily and the head vanished.

“We didn’t feed the ogre,” the girl’s voice said behind them. “We know never to feed an ogre, but to bar ourselves inside at their coming. And so we did with this one, and we watched from our window while he pulled down our fence and took our best goat. Then he sat down just there, where you are now, his legs dangling over like he’s an infant, and happily eating the goat raw, the way ogres will. We knew not to unbar the door, and the sun getting lower, and the ogre still eating our goat, but we could see he’s getting weaker. Then at last he stands up, holding what’s left of the goat, then he falls down, first to his knees, then onto his side. Next thing he rolls into the ditch, goat and all, and it’s two days he’s been down there and still not dead.”

“Let’s come away, child,” Elizabeth said. “This is no sight for you or your brothers. But what is it made this poor ogre so sick? Can it be your goat was diseased?”

“Not diseased, Miss, poisoned! We’d been feeding it more than a full week just the way Bronwen taught us. Six times each day with the leaves.”

“Why did you do such a thing?!” Elizabeth cried, and at the same time, Wickham asked “Who is Bronwen?”

The girl looked at them in confusion.

“Who is Bronwen?” Wickham repeated.

“The old witch woman who comes hereabouts now and then. We don’t like her, but she never lies.”

“And now to Elizabeth’s question, which was, why would you poison your best goat?”

“Why, Sir, to make the goat poisonous for the she-dragon. This poor ogre wasn’t to know that and so he poisoned himself. But it’s not our fault, Sir, because he shouldn’t have been marauding the way he was!”

“Are you saying you fed the goat deliberately to fill it with poison?” Elizabeth asked.

“Poison for the she-dragon, Miss, but Bronwen said it wouldn’t harm any of us. So how could we know the poison might harm an ogre? We weren’t to blame, Miss, and meant no wickedness!”

“No one will ever blame you, child. Yet tell us, why were you wishing to prepare poison for Querig, for I take it this is the she-dragon you talk of?”

“Oh, Miss! We said our prayers morning and night and often in the day too. And when you came just now, we knew God had sent you. So please say you’ll help us, for we’re just poor children forgotten by our parents! Will you take that goat there, the only one left to us now, and go with it up that path to the giant’s cairn? It’s an easy walk, Miss, less than half a day there and back, and I’d do it myself but can’t leave these young ones alone. We’ve fed that goat just the way we did the one eaten by the ogre, and this with three more days’ leaves in it. If only you’d take it to the giant’s cairn and leave it tethered there for the she-dragon, Miss, and it’s but an easy stroll. Please say you’ll do it, guests, for we’re fearing nothing else will bring our beloved parents back to us.”

“What’s to be done to bring your parents back to you?”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Wickham whispered to her. “Their parents are dead, like almost everyone else in these parts, killed by a dragon, or soldiers, or dragon vermin, or magic.”

The girl, oblivious to Wickham, answered Elizabeth. “Didn’t we just tell you, Miss? If you’d only take the goat up to the giant’s cairn, where it’s well known food’s regularly left for the she-dragon. Then who knows, she’ll perish the same way that poor ogre has, and he was a strong-looking one before his meal! We’d always been afraid before of Bronwen because of her wise arts, but when she saw we were here alone, forgotten by our own parents, she took pity on us. So please help us, elders, for who knows when anyone else will come this way? We’re afraid to show ourselves to soldiers or strange men who pass, but you’re the ones we prayed for to the God Jesus.”

“But what is it young children like you can know of this world,” asked Elizabeth, “that you believe a poisonous goat will bring your parents back to you?”

“And, if Jesus were to send any person your way, I assure you Jesus would not have picked me,” Wickham added.

“It’s what Bronwen told us, Guests, and though she’s a terrible old woman, she never lies. She said it’s the she-dragon lives over us here made our parents forget us. And even though we often make our mother angry with our mischief, Bronwen says the day she remembers us again, she’ll hurry back and hold us one by one like this.” The girl suddenly clutched an invisible child to her breast, her eyes closing, and rocked gently for a moment.

Then opening her eyes again, she went on “But for now the she-dragon’s cast some spell to make our parents forget us, so they’ll not come home. Bronwen says the she-dragon’s a curse not just to us but to everyone and the sooner she perishes the better. So we worked hard, sir, feeding both goats exactly as she said, six times each day. Please do as we ask, or we won’t ever see our mother and father again. All we ask is you tether the goat at the giant’s cairn then go your way.”

Elizabeth started to speak, but Wickham said over her quickly “I’m sorry, child. We wish we could help you, but to climb higher into these hills is now beyond us. We’re weary from days of hard travel, as is our horse. We’ve no choice but to hurry on our way before further misfortune takes us.”

“But, Sir, it was God himself sent you to us! And it’s but a short stroll, and not even a steep path from here. Please don’t punish us for poisoning the ogre! We didn’t know! Please, please help us sir!”

Wickham seemed to enjoy the begging, but he soon turned to Elizabeth. “What do you think, should we add a goat to our horse? Though, it is hard to believe that these idiot children will somehow lead us to Querig.”

“I don’t think they are foolish, simply young and afraid. But they followed the advice of a local witch, who says what every learned person has said so far; that Querig resides here and it is her breath making us all forget. That cannot be a lie, even Darcy and Father Jonus said it!”

“Yes, but do you believe that this old witch knows where Querig lives? That it’s a short half day’s stroll from here? That is too good to be true.”

“But is it really beyond us to do as they ask? Let’s not hasten away carelessly.”

“The longer we whisper, the longer we taunt their hopes,” Wickham said, showing for the first time some empathy for the children.

“But think on what it is they ask, Wickham.” Elizabeth paced shortly, before returning. “Will a chance like this ever come our way again? Think on it! We stumble to this spot so near Querig’s lair. And these children offer a poisonous goat by which even the two of us, you with naught but a sword and I with nothing at all, might bring down the she-dragon! Think on it, Wickham! If Querig falls, the fog will fast begin to clear. You will have your pardon. Who’s to say those children aren’t right and God himself didn’t bring us this way?”

Wickham remained silent for a moment. “There’s no telling that goat will bring any harm at all to Querig,” he said eventually. “A hapless ogre’s one thing. This she-dragon’s a creature to scatter an army.”

“These children have provided to us, right or wrong, our only lead to Querig. We may as well take it. And if we take it, what harm is there in taking the goat along with us? We lose nothing for trying. The children are right. You and Darcy have been saying ever since that Querig would not be alive were it not for some locals and probably those monks feeding her. This could as likely be her lair as it is not.”

Wickham sighed loudly, and then turned to the children. “We shall make use of the fire and the food you offered us, as my sister and I are hungry and weary of travel. After we are well rested, tomorrow morning, we shall take your goat, and you shall tell us exactly how to find the giant’s cairn.”


	21. Storm Clouds To The West

The goat, Elizabeth could see, was well at home on this mountain terrain. It was eating happily the stubbly grass and heather, not caring about the wind, or that its left legs were poised so much lower than the right. The animal had a fierce tug as she had discovered all too well during their ascent, and it had not been easy to find a way of safely tethering it while she and Wickham took their rest. But Wickham had spotted a dead tree root protruding from the slope, and had carefully bound the rope to it.

The two large rocks, leaning one towards the other like an old married couple, had been visible from some way down, but Elizabeth had hoped to come across a shelter from the wind long before they reached the rocks. Yet the bare hillside had offered nothing, and they had had to persevere up the little path, the goat tugging as impulsively as the fierce gusts. How Wickham managed the horse, Elizabeth had little idea. When at last they reached the twin rocks, it was as if God had crafted for them this sanctuary, for while they could still hear the blasts around them, they felt only faint stirrings in the air.

The previous night, while restful, had been tense. Wickham and she had taken turns staying awake to keep watch, as neither truly trusted the children. In fact, Wickham was so distrustful that he refused to eat their food, hunting fish in a nearby stream and cooking it himself.

Elizabeth couldn’t help think of Darcy, especially each time Wickham made his presence known. She thought of the journey to the monastery; when Darcy had been uncertain of Wickham, how he had stayed awake all night himself keeping watch, not demanding anything from anyone else. Even when he was angry with her, when Sir Bennet had abandoned them, Darcy had never once grumbled. He understood what his duty was, and upheld it uncomplainingly. Every chance he had had to gracefully make his exit, Darcy had instead chosen to stand by her, to protect Lydia, and also fulfil his mission. She also appreciated how, when Darcy had at the beginning of this journey given orders on what to do and where to go, by the end, he had the grace to share with her his reasoning, ask for her input, and take into account her feelings, even though him being the warrior and all the rest of them with nothing of value to add, they should have all just deferred to his judgment without question.

Darcy was a man, Wickham a mere boy in comparison.

“Uphill and uphill we climb,” Wickham grumbled, drawing her attention. “That young girl hid from us the true hardship of this task.”

“No doubt about it, she made it sound an easy stroll. But who’ll blame her? Still a child and more cares than one her age should bear.”

Grumbling some more, Wickham wandered from their spot. “Elizabeth, look there. Down in that valley, do you see that?”

A hand raised to the glare, Elizabeth tried to discern what Wickham was indicating, but eventually shook her head. “I see valley after valley where the mountains descend, but nothing remarkable.”

“Follow my finger. Aren’t those soldiers walking in a line?”

“I see them now, right enough. But surely they’re not moving.”

“They’re moving, and might be soldiers, the way they go in a long line.”

“To my eyes, they seem not to move at all. And even if they’re soldiers, they’re surely too far to bother us. It’s those storm clouds to the west concern me more, for they’ll bring mischief swifter than any soldiers in the distance.”

“You may be right. I wonder how much further it is we’re to go. That young girl wasn’t honest, insisting it was but a simple stroll. She must have been desperate to have us do her bidding. It would be a fine thing if Querig were slain and this mist no more, it would serve the spirit of Arthur right, but when I see that ill-tempered goat chewing the earth that way, it’s hard to believe a foolish creature like that could ever do away with a great she-dragon.”

“Maybe the goat cannot, but at least we obtained some direction on where to head. And now that we have the goat, we may as well take it with us.”

“Let us leave,” Wickham suddenly said, decidedly. “Who knows what mischief Lydia has been up to, and if those are soldiers, they may be on our scent. The bigger the distance ‘tween us, the better.”

So they climbed, still higher, the winds growing stronger and stronger, until Wickham came to an abrupt stop.

“Why stack heavy stones to above a man’s height in so high and remote a place as this?” Wickham asked.

It was a question equally to baffle Elizabeth as she came wearily up the mountain slope. When the young girl had first mentioned the giant’s cairn, Elizabeth had pictured something atop a large mound. Yet this cairn had simply appeared before them on the incline, no feature around it to explain its presence.

The goat and the horse, however, seemed immediately to sense its significance, each animal struggling frantically as soon as the cairn had become visible as a dark finger against the sky.

“They know their fate,” Wickham remarked grimly. “If nothing else, that goat is telling us we’re in the right spot. Here there be dragons.”

Wickham made Elizabeth hold both animals as he set about hammering into the ground with a stone a wooden stake around which to tie the goat. “If your god cares at all for goats, he’ll bring Querig here before long, or it’ll be a lonely wait for this poor animal.”

“If the goat dies first, do you suppose Queirg will still sup on meat not living and fresh? And where do you suppose we should remain? Or should we leave?”

“Who knows how a she-dragon likes her meat? Do you think I am in the habit of hunting dragons?” Wickham asked. “But there’s grass here to keep this goat a while, even if it’s of a mean sort.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, but the blink of an eye found Wickham clamping her mouth shut.

 _“Shhh…”_ he hissed. “Not a word. Someone’s here.” Wickham drew his sword, standing in a defensive posture, while Elizabeth let go of the horse and tried to frantically tether the goat. She couldn’t believe that a soldier had somehow made it ahead of them.

“I can hear you,” Wickham declared, loudly and boldly. “As I know that you can hear us too. Come out from your hiding, and let us see if we can have a discussion as men. And if not,” he added, “my sword is equally ready to speak.”

After a long pause, Elizabeth finally heard the dull sound of old metal. From somewhere behind the stones, a figure made its way to them.

“Elizabeth, daughter of mine! Come here and hold your father!”

Stupefied, Elizabeth stared at the emerging figure of Sir Bennet.

“What a strange place to find you in dear child, with a new Saxon friend you seem to have found. But oh! how relieved I am to see you, safe and strong!”


	22. A Bitter Recollection

Elizabeth walked to her father in a daze.

“Don’t trust him,” Wickham intoned.

“Are you well, my child?”

“You abandoned us!” Elizabeth cried. “You left us, to make our own way to the monastery, where…where…how could you leave us like that?!”

“Dear Lizzy. I fully comprehend your frustration,” Sir Bennet said, putting an arm around her shoulders. Wickham spat in disgust. “But someone had to stave of Lord Brennus and his men; if I had stayed with you, those soldiers would have caught up and killed us all. I did what I had to, in order to protect you.”

“What protection,” Wickham scoffed. “If not for me, your daughters would likely be dead by now. Dead, killed by soldiers of Brennus.”

Sir Bennet ignored Wickham, and continued to address Elizabeth. “When I made it to the monastery, Horace now being a weak and old horse, the entire place was afire! I feared so much for you, and for Lydia, but was assured by the monks that you had both somehow escaped. The Saxon warrior was feared dead, however. I am so relieved to find out that you are alive, Lizzy. But where is Lydia?”

“If the Saxon warrior was feared dead, you wouldn’t be found at this location now, would you?” Wickham taunted, entirely uncaring that he was not being responded to. His comments did have the effect of holding Elizabeth back somehow, from truly buying into what her father was saying. Wickham’s words were like a needle poking in her side, trying to remind her of something long forgot.

“Lizzy, where is Lydia? And what has brought you to this remote spot?”

“That’s right, do go on,” Wickham drawled. “Let us extend this fiction where you pretend to care about the welfare of the daughter that you had ordered to be killed. I haven’t heard a good fairy tale since I was a boy.”

That finally received attention. Sir Bennet looked at him in distaste. “Lizzy, who is this vagabond that you have found?”

“Under normal circumstances, I would introduce myself, but I don’t see the necessity of extending common courtesies to _traitors._ ” Wickham all but spat out the last word.

“What are you speaking of?” Elizabeth asked Wickham, as it was obvious that Sir Bennet was going to resume ignoring the man.

“He is a traitor. Plain and simple.”

“You are speaking to knight of King Arthur,” Sir Bennet warned.

“And what of that? Being a knight somehow absolves you of your sins? I spit on you, I spit on your Arthur, and I spit on your knighthood!” Wickham snapped. “You brokered a peace. _You_ brokered a peace. All us Saxons well remember it. You and your Arthur. And then you broke it. You broke it, and you killed us. _Traitor._ ”

“Father,” Elizabeth said, and found her voice cracking. “Father, why are you here, gathered here in this forsaken spot?”

“Child, as I told that Saxon warrior, to slay Querig was a mission entrusted to me. A mission entrusted to me by Arthur himself. I am here to on that mission, as I am laying out some plans.”

A fragment of recollection stirred on the edges of Elizabeth’s mind. The emotion it provoked, even before she could hold it down, surprised and shocked her, for mingled with the overwhelming desire to go to speak to her father, were distinct shadows of anger and bitterness. “Father, didn’t our ways part years ago? Mine remained with my sisters, while yours …”

As Sir Bennet stopped before the cairn and bowed his head to the stones as if in apology, she felt both memory and anger growing firmer.

“And indeed child, who’s to say your path wasn’t the more godly?” he said. “To leave behind all great talk of war and peace. Leave behind your power to heal. To leave behind Arthur once and for all and devote yourself to your sisters.” He glanced over again at Wickham, who had maintained his defensive posture.

“A good and noble sister you are,” Sir Bennet continued. “I’ve watched how you have walked beside Lydia as a kind shadow. Should I have done the same? Yet God guided us down separate paths. I had a duty. This vagabond accuses me of being a traitor. That great peace that was brokered, torn down in blood! Yet it held well for a time. Torn down in blood! Who blames us for it now? Do I fear youth? Is it youth alone can defeat an opponent? Let him come, let him come. Let your warrior come.”

“Father, how _could_ you?”

“My dearest Lizzy, I saw you that very day and you talked of cries in your ears of children and babes. I heard the same, yet were they not like the cries from the surgeon’s tent when a man’s life is spared even as the cure brings agonies? Why should I fear your warrior now? I’ve fought fanged Norsemen with reindeer snouts!” Sir Bennet went striding off, not stopping till he stood where the land’s edge appeared to meet the sky.

“He may be your father, but he is a traitor who was willing to sacrifice your sister,” Wickham said quietly. “I know that you hold me in distrust, but I implore you to be wary of your father.”

Sir Bennet, gazing down at the view, had raised his arm in the air, and now without turning, shouted through the wind, “They’ll soon be upon us! They come up the slope eagerly.”

Elizabeth wanted to see what her father was speaking of, and even Wickham followed her, but the old knight came walking towards them, and they all three halted not far from where the animal was tethered.

“The Saxon warrior will soon be upon us, and what a fellow he is! Go, look if you doubt it! They emerge from the wood below. Now he comes, and on his rope not a goat, but a lass to guide him.”

“Have they seen us?” Elizabeth asked in excitement.

“I’ll wager that warrior has keen eyes, and sees us even now against the sky.” Sir Bennet laughed to himself, but a melancholy lingered in his voice. “Yes,” he said finally. “I fancy he sees us well enough. Elizabeth, I see you before me now and I’m reminded of that night. The wind as fierce then as this one. And you, still just a lass, cursing Arthur to his face while the rest of us stood with heads bowed! For who wanted the task of striking you down? Each of us hiding from the king’s eye, for fear he’d command with one glance to run you through, girl though you were. If he had ordered that, I would have stood against it! But see, Arthur was a great king, and here’s more proof of it! You cursed him before his finest knights, yet he replied gently to you. You recall this, child?”

“How am I to recall anything, when this she-dragon’s breath keeps it all from me?” Elizabeth asked bitterly, though she was beginning to well remember the night her father spoke of.

“My eyes lowered like the rest, almost expecting your head to roll past my feet even as I gazed down at them! Yet Arthur spoke to you with gentleness! You don’t recall even a part of it? The wind that night almost as strong as this one, our tent ready to fly into the dark sky. Yet Arthur meets curses with gentle words. He thanked you for your service. For your loyalty and honour. And he bade us all think of you with thanks. I whispered my farewell to you as you took your fury into the storm. We all shared something of your anger, even if you did wrong to curse Arthur, and on the very day of his great victory!”

“Victory?” Elizabeth said, feeling more and more the emotions raging through Wickham. “ _Victory?_ You brokered a great treaty. A great peace. It well held for years. Didn’t all men, Christian and pagan, sleep more easily for it, even on the eve of battle? To fight knowing innocents were safe in villages? And yet, when Arthur decided to break it, to break a brokered treaty to gain complete control, you didn’t fight! You didn’t object! You should have walked out with me, if not because your own daughter died for it, then because it was so, _so_ wrong! You killed villages and villages of innocent Saxons, in order to crush soldiers in battle! It was an unholy thing to break the treaty, father!”

“Ah, now you recall it!”

“My memory’s of God himself betrayed, sir. And I’m angry of being robbed the memory of our greatest betrayal till now.”

“For a time I wished the same from the fog, my child. Yet soon I understood the hand of a truly great king. For the wars stopped at last, wasn’t that so? Hasn’t peace been our companion since that day?”

“Peace at such high a price of betrayal and dishonour is no peace at all. None who was party to it will be allowed entry to heaven.”

“Child, you are still too young to understand the ways of kings. But we can talk this through once we are away from this place.”

“You shall _never_ make it away from this place,” Wickham said with conviction. “Darcy is almost upon us.”

“I don’t fear him, even if he’s got youth on his side!”

“Your helmet is missing,” Wickham pointed out, with disarming lightness.

“I left it in those woods! But what need of it now? The armour too I’d take off but I fear you waiting to skin this fox underneath in some dastardly, ungentlemanlike manner.”

“Well, I guess I will stay and see who survives this day,” Wickham said, assuming a languid air.

“My daughter, will you not understand the acts of a great king? We can only watch and wonder. A great king, like God himself, must perform deeds mortals flinch from! Who calls me a coward? Or a slaughterer of babes? Where was this vagabond that day? Hiding behind his nurse’s skirt, I wager.”

“Better coward than traitor,” Wickham said.

For a moment, the howl of the wind was so loud that nothing could be heard. Then, Elizabeth became aware that both Wickham and her father had fallen silent and were staring off. Turning, she saw Darcy and Lydia standing at the cliff’s edge.

The sky had thickened, so that to Elizabeth it was as if they had been carried here on the clouds. Now both of them, in near-silhouette, appeared peculiarly transfixed; Darcy holding firm his rein in both hands like a charioteer, and Lydia leaning forward at an angle, both arms outstretched as though for balance.

There was a new sound in the wind, and then Elizabeth heard Wickham mutter, “There she goes again, with her singing! Must she be so tuneless?”

The two figures lost their rigidity and came towards them, Lydia pulling in front. Blood was splattered all over Darcy, and even Lydia was speckled with it.

“My apologies,” Darcy said coming closer. “Yet it’s all I can do to stop her leaping rock to rock till she breaks herself.”

Elizabeth recalled that Lydia was behaving in just this way in the underground tunnel, just before that creature had appeared.

Darcy looked directly at Elizabeth, and his eyes lit up. “You are all well?” he asked, but looked only at her.

Elizabeth nodded shakily.

“As you can see Darcy, we are in exalted company,” Wickham said, nodding towards Sir Bennet. “I believe you’ve met before. What happened to you?”

“We had a small encounter with Lord Brennus himself. I was delayed in overseeing the burial my honour dictated.”

Lydia’s singing was making it hard for them to hear one another, and she was tugging more than ever, the object of her attention quite evidently a spot at the crest of the next slope.

Darcy gave the rope a sharp pull, then said “Lydia appears anxious to reach those rocks up there. Sir Bennet, what lies in them? I see stones piled one upon another, as though to hide a pit or lair.”

“Why ask me?” said Sir Bennet. “Ask Lydia, and she may even stop her songs!”

“Sir Bennet, we share a duty to keep this girl from harm. We must watch her carefully in this high place. Elizabeth, perhaps you can help me.” With that, Darcy led Lydia to where Wickham had hammered in the stake, and crouching down began securing Lydia’s rope to it.

Indeed it seemed to Elizabeth that Darcy lavished unusual care on this task, testing repeatedly each knot he made, as well as the soundness of Wickham’s handiwork.

“Are you alright?” he whispered when Elizabeth was close enough.

“Well enough, now that you are here. I am remembering things that make me shudder…I am relieved to see you safe. I fear what lies ahead.”

Meanwhile, Lydia herself remained oblivious. She calmed somewhat, but her gaze stayed fixed on the rocks at the top of the slope, and she continued to tug with quiet insistence. Her singing, though far less shrill, had gained a dogged quality. For its part, the goat had moved as far away as its own rope would allow, but was nonetheless gawping in fascination.

As for Sir Bennet, he had been watching Darcy’s every movement with care, and, or so it seemed to Elizabeth, a kind of sly cunning had come into his eyes. As the Saxon warrior had become absorbed in his task, her father had moved stealthily closer, drawn out his sword, and planting it into the soil, leant his weight on it, forearms resting on the broad hilt. In this stance, her father was now watching Darcy, and it struck Elizabeth he might be memorising details concerning the Darcy’s person: his height, his reach, the strength in the calves, the strapped left arm.

Wickham, to the side, also was observing everything with careful precision.

His work completed to satisfaction, Darcy rose and turned to face Sir Bennet. For a small moment there was a strange uneasiness in the looks they exchanged, then Darcy smiled warmly. “Now here’s a custom divides Britons from Saxons,” he said, pointing. “See there, sir. Your sword’s drawn and you use it to rest your weight, as if it’s cousin to a chair or footstool. To any Saxon warrior, it seems a strange custom.”

“Grow to my creaky years, sir, you’ll see if it seems so strange! In days of peace like these, I fancy a good sword’s only too glad of the work, even if just to relieve its owner’s bones. What’s odd about it?”

“But observe how it presses into the earth. Now to us Saxons, a sword’s edge is a thing of never-sleeping worry. We fear to show a blade even the air lest it lose a tiny part of its edge.”

“Is that so? A sharp edge’s of importance, Master Darcy, I’ll not dispute. But isn’t there too much made of it? Good footwork, sound strategy, calm courage. And that little wildness makes a warrior hard to predict. These are what determine a contest, sir. And the knowledge God wills one’s victory. So let an old man rest his shoulders. Besides, aren’t there times a sword left in the sheath’s drawn too late? I’ve stood this way on many a battlefield to gather breath, comforted my blade’s already out and ready, and it won’t be rubbing its eyes and asking me if it’s afternoon or morn even as I try to put it to good use.”

“Then it must be we Saxons keep our swords more heartlessly. For we demand they not sleep at all, even as they rest in the dark of their scabbards. Take my own here, sir. It knows my manner well. It doesn’t expect to take the air without soon touching flesh, bone, and blood.”

“A difference in custom then.”

Suddenly, Lydia stopped singing and began to shout. She was making the same statement over and over, but Elizabeth could not follow her speech. For another moment, Lydia continued to shout and pull, then fell silent, slumping down onto the ground, and appeared on the verge of tears.

No one spoke for what seemed a very long time, the wind howling between them.

“Sir Bennet,” Darcy said finally. “We look now to you, sir. Let’s keep no more disguises between us. You’re Querig’s protector, are you not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bonus points to anyone who saw that coming! 😉


	23. Dark Magic

“Sir Bennet,” Darcy said finally. “We look now to you, sir. Let’s keep no more disguises between us. You’re the she-dragon’s protector, are you not?”

“I am, sir.” Sir Bennet gazed at both men, with an air of defiance. “Her protector, and lately her only friend. The monks kept her fed for years, leaving tethered animals at this spot, as you have guessed. But now they quarrel among themselves, and Querig senses their treachery. Yet she knows I stay loyal.”

Lydia was too far into her madness to comprehend what had been said. Wickham looked as if he ate something very bitter; Darcy, clearly anticipating the response was expressionless.

Elizabeth felt sick to her stomach.

“Then Sir Bennet,” Darcy said, “will you care to tell us if we stand near the she-dragon now?”

“She’s near. You’ve done well to arrive here, even if you had good fortune stumbling on Lydia for a guide.”

Lydia, who was back on her feet, began to sing once more, albeit in a low chant-like manner.

“Father,” Elizabeth said, voice steadier than the whirl of emotions inside her, “tell your daughter if you will. How is it a knight like you, turns out to be Querig’s protector?”

“Perhaps this Saxon warrior here’s keen to explain it, child. He seems to think that he knows all.”

“On the contrary, I’m as eager as Elizabeth to hear your account of it. Yet all in good time. First, we must settle one question. Will I cut loose Lydia to see where she runs? Or will you, Sir Bennet, lead the way to Querig’s lair? Though I may now guess the way without a guide. We must go to those rocks atop this next slope, must we not?”

Sir Bennet stared emptily, then sighed. “Leave Lydia,” he said heavily. “You are quite right, sir,” he added. “Those rocks circle a pit, and no small one. A pit as deep as a quarry, and you’ll find Querig asleep there. If you really mean to fight her, Master Darcy, you’ll have to climb down into it. Now I ask you, sir, do you really mean to do such a wild thing?” Sir Bennet straightened to his full height, pulled the sword from the ground and carefully returned it to its scabbard.

“I’ve come this long way to do so.”

“You want this goat full of poison?” Wickham asked casually.

“While I may take advantage of Querig’s slumber, poison’s a weapon I don’t care to employ. Besides, I lack the patience now to wait another half day or more to discover if the she-dragon will sicken from her supper.”

“Who _is_ this man?” Sir Bennet asked.

Neither Saxon deigned to answer him, so Elizabeth attempted an explanation she thought appropriate. “He is George Wickham. He and Darcy were childhood friends.”

Sir Bennet turned to fully look at Elizabeth. “Wait down here, my child, and hide from the wind beside the cairn. You’ll not wait long.”

“You mistake me, father,” Elizabeth said, “I’ve stretched my strength to come this far. I wish to see this to the end, and shall be walking this last slope with the three of you.”

Sir Bennet once again sighed and shook his head helplessly. “Then let’s all go together. Elizabeth, a dragon’s lair is no place for you, though I dare say no harm will befall you, and I’ll be easier myself for your presence. Keep your voices low lest Querig stir from her sleep.”

As they ascended the next path, the wind grew less harsh, even though they felt more than ever to be touching the sky.

They walked mostly in silence, but at one point Sir Bennet halted on the path which caused everyone else to pause. As she came up behind, Elizabeth could hear Sir Bennet saying with a small chuckle, “I’ll confess, Master Darcy, my hope’s that even now Querig’s breath will rob you of the memory of why you walk beside me. I await eagerly your asking where it is I lead you! Yet I see from both your eye and step you forget little.”

Darcy smiled grimly. “I believe, sir, it’s this very gift to withstand strange spells won me this errand from my King. For in the fens, we’ve never known a creature quite like this Querig, yet have known others with wonderful powers, and it was noticed how little I was swayed, even as my comrades swooned and wandered in dreams. Wickham, wo walks with us can boast the same quality, and I believe that it is something given to us from childhood that protects us.”

Sir Bennet nodded. “Now, it’s not so far. Let’s be moving on while she still sleeps.”

They continued in silence. The ground had become less demanding, levelling to something like a plateau. The rocks they had discussed from below now loomed before them, and Elizabeth could see, as they came ever nearer, how they were arranged in a rough semi-circle around the top of a mound to the side of their path. She could see too how a row of smaller stones rose in a kind of stairway up the side of the mound, leading right up to the rim of what could only be a pit of significant depth. The grass all around where they had now arrived seemed to have been blackened or burnt, lending the surroundings – already without tree or shrub - an atmosphere of decay.

Sir Bennet, bringing the party to a halt near where the crude stairway began, turned to face Darcy with some deliberation. “Will you not consider a last time, sir, leaving this dangerous plan? Why not return now to your country, with Lord Brennus safely buried?”

Darcy glanced back the way they had come, then looked again at Sir Bennet. “You know it, sir. I cannot turn back. Show me this dragon.”

The old knight nodded thoughtfully, as though Darcy had just made some casual but fascinating observation.

“Very well,” he said. “Then keep your voices low, for what purpose should we wake her?”

Sir Bennet led the way up the side of the mound and on reaching the rocks signalled for them to wait. He then peered over carefully, and after a moment, beckoned to them, saying in a low voice, “Come stand along here, friends, and you’ll see her well enough.”

Darcy helped Elizabeth onto a ledge beside him, then they leant over one of the rocks. The pit below was broader and shallower than Elizabeth had expected; more like a drained pond than something actually dug into the ground. The greater part of it was now in pale sunlight, and seemed to consist entirely of grey rock and gravel - the blackened grass finishing abruptly at the rim - so that the only living thing visible, aside from the dragon herself, was a solitary hawthorn bush sprouting incongruously through the stone near the centre of the pit’s belly.

The dragon's posture - prone, head twisted to one side, limbs outspread – might easily have resulted from her corpse being hurled into the pit from a height. In fact, it took a moment to ascertain this creature was indeed asleep. Her skin, which should have appeared oiled and of a colour not unlike bronze, was instead a brownish colour, dull like a less magnificient animal. Her wings were sagging to either side of her. The head being turned against the grey pebbles, Elizabeth could see only the one eye, which was hooded in the manner of a turtle’s, and which opened and closed lethargically according to some internal rhythm.

“Can this really be her, Darcy?” Elizabeth said quietly.

“Look there, Lizzy,” Sir Bennet’s voice said behind them. “So long as she’s breath left, she does her duty.”

“Is she perhaps already poisoned, do you think?” Wickham asked Darcy.

“She simply grows old, George, as we all must do. And dragons are generally not meant to be confined inside a remote wooden quarry. Her restrictions affect her. But she still breathes, and so Merlin’s work lingers,” Darcy answered quietly.

“ _Merlin?!_ ” Wickham asked, gasping softly.

Darcy started walking down the mound, and Elizabeth and Wickham followed him. “Who else could it possibly be? Someone with enough magic and power, walking beside Arthur, able to bring a fearsome dragon under their command? Merlin, it must have been. It could have _only_ been.”

“It comes back to me now,” Elizabeth said. “I remember Merlin’s work here and dark it was too.”

“Dark, Lizzy?” said Sir Bennet. “Why dark? It was the only way. Even before that battle was properly won, I rode out with four good comrades to tame this same creature, in those days both mighty and angry, so Merlin could place this great spell on her breath. A dark man he may have been, but in this he did God’s will, not only Arthur’s. Without this she-dragon’s breath, would peace ever have come? Look how we live now! Old foes as cousins, village by village. Master Darcy, I ask again. Will you not leave this poor creature to live out her life? Her breath isn’t what it was, yet holds the magic even now. Think, sir, once that breath should cease, what might be awoken across this land even after these years! Yes, we slaughtered plenty, I admit it, caring not who was strong and who weak. God may not have smiled at us, but we cleansed the land of war. Leave this place, sir, I beg you. We may pray to different gods, yet surely yours will bless this dragon as does mine.”

Darcy looked at Sir Bennet in disgust. “What kind of god is it, sir, wishes wrongs to go forgotten and unpunished?”

“You ask it well, Master Darcy, and I know my god looks uneasily on our deeds of that day. Yet it’s long past and the bones lie sheltered beneath a pleasant green carpet. The young know nothing of them. I beg you leave this place, and let Querig do her work a while longer. Another season or two, that’s the most she’ll last. Yet even that may be long enough for old wounds to heal for ever, and an eternal peace to hold among us. Look how she clings to life, sir! Be merciful and leave this place. Leave this country to rest in forgetfulness.”

“How can old wounds heal while maggots linger so richly? Or a peace hold for ever built on slaughter, dishonour, and a magician’s trickery? Sir Bennet, my answer’s unchanged. I must go down into this pit. What if I asked you in turn, sir knight. Will you leave this place to me and return now to your fine old stallion awaits you below?”

“You know I cannot, Master Darcy.”

“It’s as I thought. Well then.”

Wickham went past, and down the rough-hewn steps. When he was once more at the foot of the mound, he looked around him and said, “Darcy, this earth looks curious here. Can it be that Querig, in her more vigorous days, blasted it this way? Or does lightning strike here often to burn the ground before new grasses return?”

For a moment the two of them strolled about randomly like companions pondering at which spot to pitch their tent.

“It’s puzzling me too. A good floor, nevertheless.”

“Though perhaps a little short in width?” remarked Wickham. “See how that edge rolls over the cliffside? A man who fell here would rest on friendly earth, sure enough, yet his blood may run swiftly through these burnt grasses and over the side. I’ll not fancy my insides dripping over the cliff like a gull’s white droppings!”

They both laughed strangely, then Darcy said “A needless worry. See how the ground lifts slightly before the cliff there? As for the opposite edge, it’s too far the other way and plenty of thirsty soil first.”

“Elizabeth,” Sir Bennet called gravely, “you were always the great one for diplomacy. Do you care to use your fine eloquence now to let us leave this place free of blood?”

“Father…”

“Our family is not what it once used to be my child, but we are all that we each have. If anyone can stay this Saxon’s sword, it will be your words.”

“Father…you knew that we were all aiming to see the end of Querig. Yet, you said nothing. You stayed silent this whole time! What could I now possibly say?”

“My child, dearest Lizzy, do you know what this will lead to? The sudden return of hundreds of memories, memories people were doing fine without. Memories of thievery, infidelity, family discord and, of course, death and massacres long forgot. This slaying of Querig, Lizzy, have you contemplated what will happen when memories return to people at large? Blood. Blood flowing everywhere, with everyone gripped by a fever for revenge. Is this what you want? Another return to war? I know that you have recollections enough to understand that war is never desirable.”

Elizabeth looked to Darcy, who was looking at her directly. He stayed silent.

She _did_ recall war. It was awful, and Elizabeth could not fathom anyone choosing to return to battle willingly. She knew the truth of her father’s words; that with returned memories, it was impossible that Saxons would not seek revenge for the breached treaty and the massacre that led to Arthur’s victory. Elizabeth recalled the fog that she had been living in, walking around with no memories, and how much she cherished what she now remembered. She would have easily let the love of her life walk past her if she had not had any memories…but would everyone else feel the way she did? Was she even entitled to make this decision for anyone else?

“Let me address you, Master Darcy,” Sir Bennet stated. “I may be old, but I am not blind. I can see that you and my daughter hold some affection for each other.”

“And what of it, Sir? I think we are all past the point of your objections.”

Sir Bennet chuckled. “This is not about my objections, though I have plenty. No, my question is…if you love my daughter, why would you go through with this?”

“Elizabeth and my aim are one and the same.”

“So…you will kill her father in front of her. Curse her to live with the sin of patricide. How will your relationship – how will _any_ relationship – survive that? Do you really suppose that two years from now, when Saxons are brutally avenging the death of their brethren, Elizabeth is going to forgive you for killing her father? This step sir, your relationship will not survive. Walk away now, and you may yet live in peace and love.”

Wickham was the first to react, sputtering uncomplimentary obscenities. “Darcy, don’t you dare give in to this!” Turning to Sir Bennet, Wickham snarled, “If he won’t kill you, _I_ shall. And don’t think for a moment that I will have any qualms about stabbing you while your back is turned. I will stuff that poisoned goat down your throat if that is what it takes to rid this world of you.”

Sir Bennet looked at Wickham with contempt. “I will deal with a vagabond such as you when the time comes. Come, warrior, speak. Is your king’s errand worth the undying hate of the woman you love? You, whose memories are intact, must know how this story will end if you kill me.”

“I prefer not to think of defeat. Yet only a mighty fool will believe you anything other than a formidable foe, no matter your years. Why do you try to dissuade me by presuming a loss?”

Elizabeth knew that Darcy was just buying time. If there was anything that would stay Darcy, it would indeed be the potential loss of herself.

“This is not fair, father. He is on a mission for his king.”

“I want you to be happy, Elizabeth. And you will not find happiness with a man who slays your father. If this warrior loves you, he will set aside his king and mission to do what is best for you both. And that is to for the three of you to walk away from here. No good can come of this for any of you.”

“You will do me the favour of leaving me out of your soothsaying,” Wickham grumbled.

“Lizzy, you have only a handful of memories. You have known this man for only a few days, and rely on memories which may be true or false. I am your father, and have protected you from near and far. Do not forsake your family for the promises of a stranger. Master Darcy, I ask you again. Will you make my daughter suffer for all the future, never to forgive you, or will you walk away?”

“It was you,” Darcy said, a strange expression falling across his eyes. “On the river, in the boat, it was you, wasn’t it Sir Bennet? Disguised as an old woman or pixies or I know not what dark magic left over from Merlin. You asked me then, to leave Elizabeth to you. You warned me of the same warnings that you give me now. That we have no hope, and that Elizabeth will hate me and walk away? I should have known then that you were behind it, having failed to be rid of me at the monastery.”

Elizabeth gasped in shock. Though Darcy had never given her the details of what had happened on the river, she had surmised that it was very bad, given how worried and shaken Darcy was afterwards.

“Well, here we are warrior. What be your answer?”

Darcy sighed. He looked at Elizabeth with eyes full of intense passion. “Love shrouded with falseness is no love at all. I do not believe for a moment that choosing to forget and not to face the wound of memory is the road to happiness. All the time we were apart, I heard your name whispered in the wind. Trying to find my way back into your heart was akin to trying hold a wave; impossible in all but a dream. Even now, I wonder if this is true and you are actually mine. I wish I did not feel so strongly about you, to be able to walk forth without giving thought to this chatter. But…my happiness is nothing without yours. I have faith that we can move past anything, to treat each other with forgiveness and love. I am not afraid to fight your father, or to face Querig. But I cannot dream your dream for you. What I do today, is a choice that you must live with forever. Your father is right. If you ask me to walk away from here, I shall do so without hesitation, and love you all the same. The choice, Elizabeth, must be yours.”


	24. Sins Of The Father

Elizabeth knew not how long she had taken alone with her thoughts, but she felt as if the wind was blowing shards of ice her way when she was ready to face her father.

“You were there at the battle’s start, father, but Arthur then chose you as one of five to ride to a mission of great import. You should have refused. You should have _refused.”_

“Elizabeth…”

“Master Merlin,” she said, spitting out the name. “A sage he may have been, but that old man made me shudder.”

“He had no choice,” Sir Bennet said. “You never saw how these cursed Saxons fought, with only Death to thank them for it.”

“I didn’t have to see it. I believe they did so for sheer anger and hatred of us,” Elizabeth replied. “For how would they not have heard what was done to their innocents left in their villages? If I, practically no more than a girl, heard about the massacres, why would the news have not reached also the Saxon ranks?”

“Elizabeth, we waste our time and energy talking about this from a decade ago. What can anyone here hope to gain now?”

Elizabeth shook her head, ignoring Sir Bennet’s words. “News of their women, children and elderly, left unprotected after our solemn agreement not to harm them, now all slaughtered by our hands, even the smallest babes. If this had been done to us, would our hatred have exhausted itself? Would we not have also fought to the last as they did?”

“Why dwell on this matter, Elizabeth? Today, the problem we face is a different one. Don’t blame me, Arthur, or even Merlin, my child. The truce once brokered was a thing truly wondrous while it held. How many innocents, Briton or Saxon, were spared over the years for it? That it didn’t hold forever is a thing of the past.”

“Why do I dwell on it? Father, the problem then is the same as now. Saxons believed in our bargain. Then your deeds, Arthur’s deeds, made us Britons liars and butchers. And together with the dark magic of Merlin, you made us all forget the crimes we were complicit in. There can be no forgiveness for our collective sins if we cannot even recall it. You told Darcy so fancifully that our God will bless this dragon. Dragon or no dragon, God will never forgive us for crimes we haven’t even asked forgiveness for, crimes we cannot atone for because most Britons cannot even remember them!”

She must have been shivering as she was speaking, because she felt Darcy put his cloak over her shoulders. She must have also been crying as she was speaking, because she felt Darcy wipe tears from her cheek.

Sir Bennet tried a different approach. “My child, I agree with you that atonement is necessary. Why not we all walk away from here, move down somewhere warmer, and we can look at what can be done without further loss of life?”

Elizabeth smiled grimly. “I have already given that idea thought. Today, you and I have been given a rare chance. We may once and for all sever this evil circle, to cleanse our land and our people, and for the hope of peace in years to come.”

She took a deep breath. There was no going back from what she was about to say. “Darcy is right. He cannot dream my dream for me. He cannot be made to live with my choice any more that I should be made to live with his choice. We must each do ourselves what is necessary for us. Darcy may slay Querig, but he cannot end the circle of hate that you and Arthur started. Darcy is a Saxon. As is Wickham. No…only you or I can end this, father.”

Wickham frowned.

“I fail to understand you, Lizzy,” Sir Bennet said, confused but also with alarm slowly creeping into his voice.

Only Darcy grasped her intent immediately, his eyes widened with horror. “Elizabeth, your father’s sins are not yours. You cannot…your father, who would have had your sister killed, will not treat you any better when it comes to it! You know this!” He grabbed her hands in his, ready to speak further but Elizabeth gently stopped him. 

“If it is my time, if I do not get to roam this land with you, then I will greet God if not with happiness, then with faith that I did my best to do right by my people and yours. My only regret will be losing you so soon after finding you again,” she replied quietly. But Elizabeth was not a person without hope, no matter how dire the situation. She smiled, and tightly held on to Darcy’s hands. “But you must have faith in me. My memory has been returning in parts and pieces, and I recall what you taught me. I recall what _he_ taught me…there is no reason why I could not best my father.”

“Darcy, what is she saying?” Wickham asked.

Before Darcy replied, Elizabeth answered Wickham herself. “I do not wish for Darcy to fight my father. Darcy can slay Querig. If my father wishes to stop that, then he should be willing to put his sword through me. He will have to, because otherwise I shall be the one to spill his blood and atone for all Britons the sins of my father and his kind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extremely short chapter, but the nature of it meant that I didn't want to load it up unnecessarily. 
> 
> Also, there was a reader who felt that Elizabeth was not an active player. I hope this pay-off is worth it!


End file.
